Omega I: World War Three
by wickedmetalviking1990
Summary: The Soviet Union attacks America, the European Alliance refuses aid; while on the other side of the Iron Curtain, China betrays Russia and Yuri, Premier Romanov's adviser, is plotting something behind the scenes. Red Alert 2-universe, slight AU, featuring an ensemble cast. Rated M for violence and language.
1. We Come in Peace

**(AN: Now we come to the story proper. As I was writing through this first chapter, I realized that this story is going to have an ensemble cast. Aside from our three commanders [all of them OCs], and the characters from _RA2_ [and possibly _RA3_ , but within reason], there would be quite a few chapters where the events are told from various different points of view. I expect this to be denser than _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ , though I do fear that happening: I only have three months left to live where I'm at, so I don't know if I'll be able to finish this story.)**

 **(A lot of backstory is thrown into this chapter, especially on the psychic abilities mentioned. The big unanswered question from the prologue will appear in time: I haven't forgotten about it. Before we begin, let's just go over the "ground rules". Once again this one fan's "love letter" to the late _Westwood_ Studios and the _Mental Omega_ team: I don't own _Red Alert 2, Yuri's Revenge_ or anything affiliated with it, those are property of _EA_ [-internal weeping-]. I'm also not affiliated with _Mental Omega_ in any way. Any reference to real-life characters outside of their fictionalized appearances in _Red Alert 1_ or _2_ is purely coincidental.)  
**

 **(I changed the rating because this chapter involved a bit of language and some rather gruesome depictions of "heads exploding", which I thought merited the new rating. Rest assured, there will be more bloody things to come.)**

* * *

 **We Come in Peace**

Yuri watched the Revolutionary Parade in Red Square from the window of the Premier's office in the Grand Palace of the Kremlin. The Red Army was off to war with the United States and her European allies. Like a chess player, he watched as the pawns made their first move against the capitalist war machine. There was still a queen on the American side, one which could very well mean the end of the Soviet war machine before it ever reached American shores.

During the 1940s, America had fought a war with the Empire of Japan in the far east, which was swiftly put to an end with the development and use of atomic bombs. While the Great War took place in Europe during the 1950s, the European Alliance was assisted by the Americans with supplies, volunteers and even tactical atomic weapons. At one point it seemed that the USSR could take the upper hand in the atomic arms race, but once the Allies destroyed Temnyy Vsadniky, the main nuclear weapons production facility of the Soviet Union, it was over.

When the preliminary plans for the invasion of America were set forth, Russian spies had been planted in the US at Yuri's request. Most of them were merely intelligence agents, blending in with the people while taking clandestine photographs of military installations and sending them back to Moscow via the Soviet embassy in Canada. During this time, it was discovered that the United States had, in the years after the end of the Great War, made their own 'Dark Horseman' nuclear weapons facility in the western state of California. Three intercontinental ballistic missiles in the Vandenburg Air-Force Base, ironically dubbed the 'Peacekeeper' Defense Network, could be used to wipe out the majority of the Soviet army, navy and air-force before it ever reached the American shores.

With greater access to NKVD than anyone else in the Soviet Union, even the Premier and the Supreme Soviet, Yuri kept this information secret during the planning process. Secrets were not uncommon in the Kremlin, especially among the Party members. Yuri knew that both Krukov and Cherdenko yearned to oust the Tsarist scion Alexander Romanov and sit in his place as the Premier of the Soviet Union, though they both cleverly thought that they kept such matters a secret from the world and from themselves. For the present, neither Krukov nor Cherdenko could be allowed to take the Kremlin. Both of them were uncontrollable, save by means that could not be exercised until the opportune moment. The old, fat fool was safe, for the moment. And as for his 'glorious' crusade...

Yuri closed his eyes, placing two fingers of his gloved right hand against his temples. His left hand picked up a specially designed amplifier and placed it against his left ear: to an ordinary eye, it looked like a black telephone with a strange antenna extending from the top side of the ear-piece. But it was much more than that. Sending messages into the minds of others who were within close proximity was child's play; sending messages over great distances was another thing.

 _Awaken, proselyte._

* * *

 _0610 Pacific Time. December 31st, 1981_

Basil Gregory had been awake ten minutes ago, taken a hot shower and was now standing in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth in preparation for his departure. On the desk by the bed were two plane-tickets, one for him and one for his wife Anna: later that day, they were taking a plane from LAX to the Jean Lesange Airport in Quebec. Their friends believed that Basil had gotten himself a job as a secretary at one of FutureTech's human resources offices in Canada: since FutureTech was the second-leading technology firm in the world behind Europe's illustrious SteinTech, it was a lucrative career choice, especially for Basil and Anna, who were planning on adopting children.

The truth was much different. Vasily Grigoryev, as he was more commonly known, and Anna Dorokhova were both intelligence agents for the Soviet Union. Their insertion into the United States had been under the guise of fleeing persecution for 'possession of seditious materials.' For five years they had lived in southern California, gone to work, made friends with their neighbors and co-workers, and behaved as one would expect a young married couple would. Vasily had even adopted the anglicized name of Basil to complete the transition.

None of their friends and neighbors suspected a thing. Vasily's cover was as an intellectual; more book-learned than physically dominant, which had been why Anna and he had risked their lives to leave the Soviet Union. He wasn't physically able to survive in the gulag. Though he was a registered member of America's Democratic Party, his friends considered him to be politically moderate; that was why he voted for Michael Dugan during the presidential election. Anna, on the other hand, had been trained as an Olympic swimmer in the USSR and had the body of a warrior. Once they had fled the country, Anna became vehemently anti-communist and often found herself engaged with liberal student protestors outside of UCLA. Different but alike, just as all good couples were.

But even beneath the identities they had created, the Russian man whose name was Vasily was even more dissimilar than Anna.

 _Awaken, proselyte._

The words appeared in Vasily's mind after he spat the mouth-wash into the sink. His friends would have begged him to talk to a psychiatrist if they knew that he was 'hearing voices'; even Anna had no idea. But these were not the whispers of the mad, but actual thoughts being transmitted as electrical charges into his head.

 _Command me,_ master, he thought. It had been too long since he heard that voice in his head.

 _The war against the United States has begun,_ said the voice. _Once this is known to the American President, he will launch their Peacekeeper ICBMs to destroy the Russian fleet, or even to strike Russia itself. It is essential that those nuclear weapons never leave their silos. I have activated three other adepts of the Psychic Corps; they will meet you outside of the Vandenburg Air-Force base, where the Peacekeeper missiles are being stored and fuelled. Infiltrate the base and prevent those missiles from being launched. Make haste, proselyte; time is of the essence._

 _I hear and obey_ , Vasily replied.

At once, Vasily began to think. Anna had slept through the alarm, but would surely be awake soon. He had to work fast to get dressed and leave without alerting her: she was only a spy, Yuri had no commands for her. Vasily was a KGB operative, yes, but there was more to him than merely gathering intelligence on America's strengths and weaknesses.

General-Major Mikhail Lazarev was not the only one with psychic abilities that Yuri had been privately training, in preparation for the war with the United States.

* * *

 _1417 Greenwich Time. December 31st, 1981_

Sergeant Alan Hendricks rubbed his eyes. He had been at the radar station on 'Mainland' Shetland since four in the morning. So far there was nothing much to report weather-wise: a few easterly winds and the temperature was remarkably warm for this time of winter. He stifled a yawn; just thirteen more minutes and it would be tea-time, and his ten-hour shift would be over. The coffee machine had run out of beans and, as if someone was trying to torment him, the local supplier was also out.

 _What in God's name drove me to take the morning shift?_ Alan thought.

He turned his attention back to the radar screen, only half-heartedly paying attention. As it wasn't football season, he couldn't turn on a game to alleviate the boredom. He reminded himself that he only had thirteen minutes left.

A beep from the console roused him from his half-awake stupor. Lazily he looked over at the phone; it hadn't come from there. As he looked back at the screen, he paused. Again he rubbed the sleep from his eyes: he must have dozed off and imagined seeing something on the screen. But as the line on the screen swung about again, it appeared: a very large object appeared on the screen. He checked the log-book: no ships were scheduled to pass through this part of the North Sea. Thinking it was an unscheduled flight, he tried to radio in on all frequencies: there was no response.

Alan reached across the desk and took the phone in his hand, dialing the number for

"Ministry of Defence, this is Sergeant Hendricks at Brae Radar Observatory in Mainland Shetland," he announced. "We have a problem."

* * *

 _0905 Pacific Time. December 31st, 1981_

It's always sunny in California, even in winter. And in southern California, the winter weather never passed lower than sixty degrees. For Vasily, who had spent many years in Moscow, it was almost unbearable: especially dressed as he was in a light jacket and jeans. Just an average person out for a drive in Lompoc; nobody would suspect a thing. At least for the present. There were, of course, other things that might give them away before he made contact with the others.

'Adepts', as Yuri called his PsiCorp troopers, had their heads shaved clean; in the United States, groups of bald Caucasian men were often associated with the extremist group known as the KKK. At best they were shunned, and at worse, especially in liberal states such as California, they could be subject to police attention or violence from the non-Caucasian community. As part of the re-education process of the PsiCorp, the man who bore the name 'Vasily' was taught not to have an opinion on anything or anyone, be it race, creed, government or personal relationship: Yuri's will was the only thing that mattered to him.

Vasily carried no weapon: he had no need for them. However, as his primary cover was as a spy, he was cleared on how to blend in and avoid drawing attention to himself. Until Vasily and the other Adepts were in Vandenburg, they had no choice but to wear hats to conceal their bald heads and blend in.

The road from Los Angeles to Lompoc was a little over two hours, and the early morning work rush (it was a Thursday, after all) made that almost three hours. At last the gray two-door car pulled up at a burger join in downtown Lompoc, the door was locked and Vasily made his way into the restaurant. As Yuri had not told him what the other Adepts looked like, and they, like him, would possibly be hiding, Vasily paused just inside the door and, closing his eyes, began to subtly probe the brain-waves of those around him.

During his training, the Adept that bore the name Vasily had been designated for secondary command and intelligence. As such, he had learned much from Yuri, especially about his innate ability to control the minds of others. According to Yuri, most human brains were receptors for electrical charges, while those with psychic abilities were both receptor and transmitter. Those brains that were transmitters could project thoughts into the minds of others with only rudimentary concentration. True mind control came as a combination of both thought projection and intense concentration, along with intense training to turn one's will to the domination of others. When properly opened, a transmitter brain could send out neutral charges, neither suggestive nor dominating, that could, like a radar, discover the location of other transmitter brains.

It was this psychic sensing that Vasily now tapped into, listening to the brain-waves of the patrons. It was not necessarily 'mind-reading' in the way that people understand in the context of mediums. Memories, hidden secrets and private thoughts could be read with intense concentration, or forced from the one being controlled. All that Vasily was sensing now was the brain-wave activity of those in the restaurant.

Suddenly he detected another transmitter brain among the dozens of receptors. Following the brain-wave patterns, Vasily crossed the restaurant and came to a booth where sat a woman wearing chulla over her head. It didn't take long for her to notice someone had arrived at the booth. There were some odd people in the world who had transmitter brains that had not been nurtured by either Stalin's scientists or the PsiCorps: as such, Yuri had given his Adepts a specific gesture that they were to give to others to discern if they were with them or no.

With his right hand, Vasily made three gestures in the universal sign language that spelled out three letters: R-W-Y. The woman held up her hand and returned the gesture. Clandestinely he took his seat across from her.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever arrive," the woman said; she was obviously not Russian. But she knew the gesture, and her brain was a transmitter. "I've already staked the outskirts of the base twice."

"I received our instructions this morning," said Vasily; his voice was deep and his accent was Slavic. "Where are the others?"

"They're in the hills outside of Vandenburg, monitoring the patrol routes of the guards," she returned.

"Good, very good," he returned. "Shall we go and meet them?"

"Not yet," the woman replied. "There is a communications array in a small base just outside of town. We should capture it to waylay communications to the air-base."

"We'll need an engineer for that, won't we?" asked Vasily.

"We have one," the woman returned. "He's waiting for us in my car."

"Let's go, then," Vasily added. "The east winds are blowing." The woman nodded, then rose up from the booth and led the way out of the restaurant and to her vehicle.

* * *

 _1620 Greenwich Time. December 31st, 1981_

The phone at Number 10 on Downing Street in London had been ringing for the past two hours. The State Defence Secretary had received a call from a military radar station in Mainland Shetland, detecting a large mass passing through the North Sea between the Shetland and Faroe Islands. So far there had been no radio contact established and the Prime Minister had refused to send the Royal Air-Force to intercept the unidentified object.

William Cumberland, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, sat in a leather arm-chair, waiting for his assistant to give him an update on the situation. With the Queen and the Royal Family at Windsor Castle, he was now the most powerful man in the United Kingdom, with executive power over the Ministry of Defence. As such, his office was being inundated with calls from other departments that had heard about the situation, all of them asking the same question: is this unidentified object a threat? And for each of these calls, he was obliged to give them the same response:

"They haven't attacked us," he had said. "So there's no reason to assume that they're hostile. If we attacked anyone who appeared in our waters, we'd be no better than those damn Yanks."

It was no secret that Prime Minister Cumberland hated the United States; this made him immensely popular among the younger generation, as well as the older one that remembered the War in Europe against the Soviet Union. As if to further his point, Cumberland strove to make Great Britain a model of progressive ideology in contrast to what he and the British public viewed as "backwards" America. Aside from the Gladius Defence Network, military funding had been cut by 45%, many of the restrictions on the media that were passed during the 50s were revoked and, with many viewing Cumberland as an advocate of peace and tolerance, like Alexander Romanov, the Prime Minister received more and more executive power, so that he could effect better change in the name of progress.

"Prime Minister," his Manchester assistant spoke. "Brae's on line two. They say they have an update on the sighting."

"Put them on," Cumberland said. "Let's hope the technician's sober enough to give an accurate report."

Perhaps it was the bureaucracy created by Cumberland's growing power, or there was someone intentionally delaying the reports for almost three hours now. Then again, when the call first came to Cumberland's office, he had dismissed it altogether: according to him, the technician, being a Scotsman, was likely drunk and had imagined the image. He still doubted what had been seen, and it wasn't until the Danish government sent over faxed photographs taken from whaling ships from the Faroes, proving that there was indeed something in the area, that Cumberland began taking some of these calls seriously and had the Royal Family moved to safety.

The assistant put him on the line.

"Brae Observatory, this is Prime Minister Cumberland," he spoke. "What's the situation?"

"Prime Minister?" the voice of Sergeant Hendricks said on the line. "Look, can you tell me what the bloody hell is going on? I've been on hold with the Ministry of Defence for almost three hours now..."

"Bloody Scots," Cumberland groaned, with one hand over the phone's mouth-piece. "All they do is complain and b*tch about every little thing." He then removed his hand. "Enough bollocks, what did you see?"

"The Soviet fleet's still holding course," Sergeant Hendricks returned. "They haven't broken off or attempted to make contact with us."

"Wait a tick, Soviet fleet?" Cumberland queried.

"Yes, Prime Minister," Sergeant Hendricks answered. "A Faroe whaling ship caught sight of them while I was on hold. The Danish government faxed me a picture to send to the Ministry of Defence: the ships bore the Soviet flag. Sir, there's a bloody great big lot of blips on my radar, so I'll be frank with you: what does all this mean? Are we under attack or something?"

Cumberland sighed. "Listen, man, there's no reason to be alarmed. Monitor the fleet and call this office if anything changes. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Prime Minister," Sergeant Hendricks warily replied.

Cumberland gave the phone back to his assistant, then rose from his chair and walked up to the curtained window. For a whole minute he remained at the window, silent and un-moving. As the youngest member of Parliament, he had been known for his aggressive, some would even say 'cutthroat', action when it came to his political opponents. Though none of this had changed, he rarely spoke of his own thoughts or shared his plans with any. Even his assistant couldn't ascertain what he was going to say or think at any given moment.

"McKenna?" he spoke to his assistant.

"Prime Minister," she returned.

"Get in touch with the Soviet embassy," he ordered. "Let's hope it's not too late to salvage this catastrophe."

Evangeline McKenna, the assistant to the Prime Minister, made her way to the phone. But she had heard the conversation that went on with Brae Observatory, even if it was only this end. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong indeed, especially if the Prime Minister was contacting the Soviet embassy. In the past three years, most former Russian embassies in the Allied countries, reopened after the War in Europe came to an end, were abandoned; only Canada, whose President Jacques Thoreau was determined to keep his country on equally friendly terms with America, the European Union and the World Socialist Alliance, maintained a Soviet embassy in their capital city of Quebec.

But what catastrophe was the Prime Minister talking about? Surely the USSR wasn't thinking about making a naval assault on the British isles! Not since William the Conqueror in the 11th century had any foreign army managed to successfully invade Britain: even the 'Man of Steel' Josef Stalin had been unable to do so when he had France in his grasp and Britain alone remained to oppose him. Furthermore, everyone knew Alexander Romanov was a pacifist, a man of peace whose political platform rested on giving humanitarian aid to impoverished third world countries.

Yet she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong.

* * *

 _1010 Pacific Time. December 31st, 1981_

The truck was now pulling up to the communications base. The woman was driving while Vasily, two other Adepts and a technician sat in the covered back of the vehicle. As it turned out, the 'car' that she had spoken of was a military transport vehicle. No one would suspect a thing. They came to a stop at the gate, where two armed guards approached the vehicle. The female Adept had carefully concealed herself with a military cap and a large pair of Aviator sunglasses. The guards didn't even recognize that the driver was not the one they were familiar with.

"You're clear," one of the guards said. He then gave the signal to the operator in the little booth to the left of the gate, and the red and white gate-bar was lifted, allowing the truck to pass into the little base.

 _It worked,_ the man called Vasily thought.

 _Of course it worked,_ the woman replied. _The real problem will be Vandenburg. It's an hour from here on foot, and you'll have to go on foot. If the air-base realizes that something's wrong, they will send someone here to investigate; the guards have already seen the truck, it won't take them long to piece together where we are, especially if we're on the main road._

 _What about patrols in the hills?_ Vasily wondered. _Surely you've thought of that also._

 _Have faith in the power of your mind,_ she returned. _Yuri would not have selected you if he didn't know you were capable of accomplishing this task._

The truck now pulled up to the garage next to the communications center. The woman was the first one out of the vehicle, looking this way and that before she came to the back of the truck. She opened the door and the other four climbed out of the back.

 _Now remember,_ Vasily thought: only the engineer could not hear the voice unless Vasily concentrated his thoughts on him. _Our primary target are the missiles. If you must kill, make sure it is out of the way and keep it clean. We don't want a manhunt to start before we've reached the Air-Base._

 _Understood_ , the others returned in thought.

"You, come with me," the woman said to the engineer. "We're going inside."

With the woman leading the way, the little group walked around to one of the side entrances of the communications array. At the side of the door stood two armed guards; it wouldn't be that easy, obviously. The group continued walking towards them, without flinching or acting suspicious. The guards noticed their group, and one stepped towards them from his post, his hand on his weapon in its holster.

"I'm gonna have to ask you to leave," the guards addressed. "This area's restricted to public access."

With a quick side-ways glance at the Adept to his right, Vasily then turned his attention to the guard who had spoken and looked him in the eyes.

 _Listen very carefully to me,_ Vasily thought. _Your mind is clear. There is nothing else in it, only my voice. My thoughts are yours, and your thoughts are mine. Take your hand off the gun and open the door for us._

"My mistake," the guard groaned, his eyes wide open. With that he removed his hand from the holster and punched in the code at the little locking terminal beside the door. The other guard seemed dazed, standing motionless with both hands hanging idly at his sides. A chime from the door sounded and the first guard pushed open the door.

"After you," Vasily insisted.

The group, led by the two guards, entered the door and passed down a hallway. None of the Adepts had been here before, but Vasily and the woman, who had control over the guards, were controlling them, feeding them imperative orders to lead them to the control room. Because they had them at the front of the group, they knew exactly where they were going.

After a few turns, they came to a door where the guards came to a stop.

"Why have we stopped?" Vasily asked.

"The control room's beyond this door," one guard said. "It requires a key-card and a pass-code. We don't have either of them."

"Who has them, soldier?" Vasily asked.

"Captain Fuller," the guard returned.

Suddenly something happened that made the woman and the other two Adepts start with alarm. The guard Vasily had been speaking to suddenly drew his gun and pointed it directly at Vasily's head.

"Hands above your heads!" he shouted. "Do it, now!"

 _Fool! You've let him slip out of your grasp!_ the woman's thoughts were raging. But Vasily did not respond; he merely raised his hands calmly, as if nothing was wrong.

The first guard kept his gun aimed at Vasily while his left-hand picked up the CB on his belt. "Captain Fuller, this is Private Donovan. Report to the control room a-sap."

 _When he comes, brother,_ Vasily projected to one of the other Adepts. _Take control of him._

In about a minute, the sound of boots walking down the tiled hallway could be heard. More than one pair of boots, by the sound of it: and from what their minds could sense, more than one person was coming down the hall to meet them. Vasily pointed up to the ceiling, where a security camera was aimed at the door. Quietly they stepped underneath the view of the camera, as the two guards took out their guns and slowly began to walk back the way they had come and make a right turn. Three gun-shots went off, then two more followed and both guards fell dead on the floor. Two Marines in blue uniforms and their captain, a broad-shouldered man with a light-blue beret, appeared, each of them armed with M9 Beretta pistols aimed at the dead guards.

"What the hell's going o..." the captain began, but was cut short.

 _Captain Fuller, I presume,_ one of the other Adepts thought. _Would you be so kind as to open the door to the control room?_

"Uh..." stammered Fuller, seemingly confused.

 _Look deeply into my eyes,_ the Adept continued. _You are used to following orders. Now you follow mine: what could be simpler? Open the control room door and stand guard._

There was silence for a moment, as Captain Fuller's face was furrowed. He seemed to be struggling with something, though no words had been spoken since they appeared. Suddenly he placed his gun in his holster.

 _Before you do that,_ Vasily interjected. _There is one thing that must be done. Stand in front of the security camera and inform your surveillance personnel that all is well. You will obey._

Fuller walked over to the camera and, picking up his walkie-talkie from his belt, opened a channel. "Fuller to Security. All clear. Over."

 _What was that about?_ the woman thought. _Weren't we supposed to avoid combat?_

 _I noticed the security camera as we arrived outside the control room,_ Vasily retorted in thought. _I improvised a way to cover our tracks. Now, shall we go?_

What 'Vasily' had revealed to the female Adept was not entirely true. He did improvise the plan to have the guards killed, making it look like they had let them in and shot at Captain Fuller. But the real reason was one of greater tactical importance, and only a little bit of pride. Due to the great amount of concentration needed to dominate someone's mind, only one brain at a time could be controlled by one psychic at a time. There were only four Adepts in the team, so no more than four people could be controlled at once. If a small platoon came after them, they might find themselves in trouble if they opened fire in a hallway with no cover. True, they might be able to cause a little chaos by turning the platoon members against each other, but that would only last so long before they were subdued or killed: or until the Adepts were killed themselves.

Pride was also a factor, especially the admittance that someone of such power could be outdone or overwhelmed. Even the great teacher Yuri found such frustration with his latest attempt at proselytizing a new member of the Psychic Corps. So great was his annoyance that 'Vasily' could feel it in his thoughts from over a thousand miles away.

Once they were inside the control room, a large room with rows of computer consoles reminiscent of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration's Mission Control center, the engineer took a seat at one of the row of communications consoles and went to work. Meanwhile, another Adept came behind the technician operating and brought him under control. Behind them, Captain Fuller and his men were dragging the bodies of the door guards into the control room.

 _What about the captain?_ thought the woman. _We can't take him with us._

 _Come into the control room,_ ordered Vasily.

Captain Fuller and the two Marines, having brought the bodies into the safety of the control room, now stood before Vasily along with the technician. Suddenly they all gave a loud cry, bending over and clutching their temples as if in pain. The technician fell first, blood dripping out of his nostrils, while Captain Fuller and the Marines, who were trained to endure great levels of pain, were brought to their knees. One of the Marines reached for his gun, then he gave a cough and blood began to pour from his eyes and ears. The other one had something pale and grayish coming out of his eyes that was certainly not tears.

Vasily, meanwhile, was glowering over them with a look of profound annoyance. The technician had fallen quite easily; why were they not dead already? He closed his eyes and placed both of his hands upon the sides of his temples. There was a loud cracking noise and splattering, then Vasily gave a sigh and relaxed. Before him lay Captain Fuller and the other Marines: all of them had most of back of their heads, from the back of the neck to just above the eyebrows and around the ear-lobes, in bloody pieces splattered across the walls and floor of the control room.

None of the Adepts needed weapons, not even in these espionage missions. Among the Adepts of Yuri's Psychic Corps, they were each taught a special and dangerous ability to use if they happened to be surrounded by enemies. In such instances, an Adept could unleash a torrent of psychic energy into all the receptor brains around him or her. At low levels of intensities, which required only moderate concentration, those affected received severe nerve damage in most, if not all, cortices of the brain, similar to a lobotomy: at higher levels, the entire brain would become so overwhelmed with intense brain-waves that it would explode. Any who survived the low intensity 'psi-wave', as Yuri called it, were brain dead; 'vegetables' as some would put it. No living being had ever yet survived a high intensity psi-wave.

"We're in," the engineer spoke.

"Very good," the woman said. "What's the status of the Peacekeeper missiles?"

"They're still in their silos," the engineer replied, examining the images on his computer screen which he had hacked from the central core. "It's still an estimated forty-five minutes until they're fully refueled."

 _We should move soon,_ Vasily shared with the other Adepts. _It's an hour from here to Vandenburg. If the Soviet navy is spotted, we'll have to reach the base and make sure the missiles never launch._

 _I'll stay here and guard the control room,_ the woman replied. _We can't afford to lose communications while we're in the field. I'll let you know if anything takes place._

 _Yuri guard you,_ Vasily thought as he and the other two Adepts made their way out of the control room.

* * *

 _1828 Greenwich Time, December 31st, 1981_

Four hours had passed since the Soviet fleet was first detected at the Brae Observatory. Four hours of trepidation and nervousness at 10 Downing Street. All calls sent to the Soviet embassy in Canada were sent back disconnected. Prime Minister Cumberland was pacing the floor of his office, quiet but seeming to brim over with pent up rage. He couldn't take it out on his assistant: how would that look if the British Prime Minister, the face of the Labour Party, exploded in rage against his female assistant?

The phone had rung almost constantly, with various other radar installations from Scotland and Northern Ireland calling in with reports about spotting the Soviet fleet. As yet there was no word from the Brae installation. In between them came calls from the RAF and the Royal Navy; they had called for the Queen, but had been told by Buckingham Palace that the Prime Minister had been given emergency powers in this instance. They asked about the rumors of the Soviet fleet, and some of them had even seen planes and large dirigibles. Did they have permission to engage them?

For each of these, Cumberland told them to stand down and await further instructions. No further instructions as yet came from his office.

Finally the phone rang. McKenna answered the phone and breathed a sigh of relief: it was Brae.

"Prime Minister!" she called from her desk. "It's Brae!"

"About bloody time," Cumberland murmured as he came to the phone. "Cumberland here. You better have some good news for me, you overpaid, haggis-guzzling fuck. My whole department has been waiting on your report since tea-time!"

"Uh...sir," Sergeant Hendricks stammered. "The Soviet fleet's gone out of radar range. They've moved southwest into the Atlantic Ocean. None of their ships have broken off."

"Thank God," McKenna breathed quietly, hoping that her boss didn't hear her. That was another thing Cumberland hated as much as America.

"Listen to me, sergeant," Cumberland spoke. "I want you to forget about what you saw today. Don't tell anyone else and don't share it with anyone, not even your fifth cousin's grand-mum. Failure to do so will be charged as willfull endangerment of public safety. Am I clear, sergeant?"

"Very, sir," Sergeant Hendricks replied.

With that, Prime Minister Cumberland hung up the phone. His face was unreadable to his assistant.

"McKenna," he spoke to his assistant.

"Yes, sir?" she asked.

"I want you to go home," he said. "Have a nice hot dinner, chat with your friends, do whatever it is you do on your weekends. Do not speak a word of what was said in this room to anyone else. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," she nodded.

"I don't think I need to tell you, of all people, what would happen if word of this got out," he replied. She nodded, and, picking up her coat, made her way to the door. But as she reached for the handle, she turned about and spoke.

"Sir."

"Yes, Eva?" he asked, using the shortened form of her first name.

"What about the fleet?"

"Not a word," he reminded her.

"I understand, sir," she returned. "But, well, what are we going to do about it?"

"That is no longer the concern of this department," Cumberland evasively replied.

"But, sir," she continued. "What about America?"

"What about them?" he returned, sighing in annoyance.

"Well, that fleet is moving south-west," McKenna returned. "Shouldn't we inform the United States government? I mean, it could be heading their way."

"And it could also be a shipment of food bound for Cuba," Cumberland replied. "You know me as well as anyone: do you think I give a damn if they're headed for America?" McKenna shook her head. "Now, then, if this asinine line of questioning is over, you are dismissed. Remember; not a word spoken here is to leave this room, understood?"

"Yes, sir." McKenna nodded, then went out the door.

Once she was gone, Cumberland walked over to a small refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of champagne. It was too early to be celebrating the New Year, but there was something else that William Cumberland felt was worth celebrating as he poured himself a glass.

* * *

 _1050 Pacific Time, December 31st, 1981_

Vasily and the Adepts were now half-way through the hills. They had kept a healthy pace and managed to avoid any patrols in the brush. Despite his light frame, Vasily could cover a lot of ground at need. Now the need was great, for there were only five minutes left until the Peacekeeper ICBMs were fully fueled. If the Soviet fleet had been spotted, it would be the end if they didn't infiltrate the air-base before then. Periodically, Vasily would hear the woman's thoughts in his head, directing him one way or another to avoid patrols.

As they approached the base, thoughts in Vasily's head transmitted from the female Adept revealed that Vandenburg was heavily guarded. Patrols with guard dogs roamed the outer perimeter, and inside were dozens of companies of soldiers doing their morning drills, and a surveillance helicopter roaming overhead as well as several tanks. Not the M41 Bulldog light tanks, but the massive M1 Abrams tanks: the main battle tank of the United States Armed Forces. Though it had been produced after the War in Europe ended, it was boasted that an Abrams tank could go toe-to-toe with the double-barreled Mammoth tank of Stalin's Red Army.

The three Adepts were now within sight of the base, hiding behind a stunted tree near the fence, arrayed with cyclone razor-wire. From where they could see, there wasn't much chance of marching up to the base and entering without being spotted. The helicopter gave a full view of the entire base from above, which would spot them in an instant. It also flew so high that controlling the pilot was not an option without some kind of device to amplify the range of the transmitter brain's affect.

 _We're in position,_ Vasily thought.

 _Alright_ , her thoughts returned. _The southern entrance is nearby. Just inside is a stack of cargo trailer boxes: you should be able to hide from patrols there. Across from that is a small power relay station guarded by a surveillance tower. North of that are three ventilation shafts that lead to the underground portion of the base: these are outside of a fenced-off area where the three missile silos are located, with another three shafts on the north side. At the north-eastern end of the silos, about six hundred yards from your position, is another communications center. The engineer says that it communicates directly with the missile command center in the underground base._

 _Understood,_ Vasily returned. _We're on our way now._

They waited until they saw a vehicle approach the base entrance, which was about fifty feet away. While the guards examined the truck, the three of them made their way into the base as quickly as possible. They hid behind the guard shack for a moment, as Vasily closed his eyes and tried to reach the mind of one of the guards. All he needed was a few moments of distraction, then they would be in the base. The second guard, who would be looking in their direction if they moved from behind the guard house, suddenly and inexplicably, looked to his left. In that brief moment, two figures walked into the base, quickly followed by another one. They hid behind a large stack of cargo trailer boxes.

Vasily tried to remember the calming exercises he had learned. If he was agitated or filled with excitement from the rush of infiltration, he would lose focus. He had to remain focused, especially to effect greater control over those who came in his path. Once his breathing and heart-rate were back under control, he turned his eyes from the gate and towards the rumble and squeal of a loud engine roaring away nearby.

An Abrams tank was rolling into view.

Though he could not see anyone inside, he could sense their brain-waves. Closing his eyes, he reached out and found not one but four brains inside of the vehicle. Controlling something as simple as a civilian automobile was easy when there was only one driver. But operating a tank with four crewmen would be impossible for one psychic to accomplish, attempting to control all of them simultaneously; without eye contact, the control wouldn't even be very potent. But the tank was large and would provide an excellent distraction, especially since they had six hundred yards to cross in a short amount of time.

His mind found one brain that was operating frequencies related to subconscious thought. Taking a chance that this was the driver, Vasily extended his thoughts towards this mind.

 _Listen to me,_ he thought. _You are in grave danger. Your superior officers will betray you. They're planning it now; the moment your vehicle stops and you exit, they will kill you. I am your escape to freedom, but you must obey everything I tell you. You are in an armored tank; they won't be able to stop you. Make your escape now, stop for nothing and for no one. Obey._

One long, uneasy moment followed. The Apache's spinning blades overhead filled the air with noise, and the distant shouts of the drill sergeants as they led their companies was only barely audible beneath the roar. Vasily wondered if he had controlled the wrong mind.

Suddenly the roaring of the Honeywell AGT1500 engine of the Abrams tank was heard and it took off at full-speed. Voices were heard shouting after it and several others began running that way as well. A loud crash was heard as the tank ran full-on into another vehicle farther down the base. Overhead, the helicopter moved towards the rampaging tank.

"Go!" whispered Vasily to the others.

Three men, unnoticed in the chaos caused by a very large tank running head-long across a road in Vandenburg Air-Force Base, made their way to the base of the watch-tower by the power relay. If they could make it to the other side of the ventilation ducts without being seen, they could hide behind them for most of the trek to the communications relay. It would be a long hike, but their five minutes were now down to three minutes. Inaccurate intelligence, whether accidental from error on the missile-fueling procedures or intentional from someone pushing for promotion, could mean that the missiles may already be fueled and ready to launch.

Suddenly an air-raid siren began to roar in the base: they were on alert. Vasily hoped that it was only the chaos caused by the tank and made the mad dash across to the vent-shafts. Now, like madmen, they jogged the rest of the way, heedless of who might see them running away from the tank-driven madness. They passed the first one unseen, and the second one was already well under way. Adrenaline was now pumping through their veins as they made it to the last vent-shaft: they were almost there.

The air-raid siren roared on. They had no care anymore: they were almost there and the tank was still causing chaos. Suddenly another noise, near at hand, caught their attention. It was the barking of a German shepherd.

"Get on the ground!" a voice shouted.

Vasily groaned in defeat. So close and yet so far. He turned around and there stood two soldiers: one had the guard dog on a leash, who was madly tugging at it, barking at the intruders with all vigilance. The second soldier had been the one who spoke, and his Beretta was aimed at Vasily's head.

"Get on the fucking ground!" the guard returned, his voice intensifying as he gave the order, ready to kill if not obeyed.

Sitting adjacent to the communications array was another watch-tower. Even if Vasily managed to control one, or they'd be shot down by those in the tower. Dog brains could not be dominated in the same way as human brains, though their heightened hearing could detect the brain-wave activity. If this German shepherd was anything like the huskies he had encountered in Moscow, it would attack if it thought its master was in danger.

1055 hours beeped on the watch on Vasily's wrist. The American Peacekeeper ICBMs had finished fueling. He had failed.

* * *

 _1355 Eastern Time, December 31st 1981_

The Oval Office of the White House. Michael Dugan had a busy day ahead of him, for there would be a New Year's party this evening, at 1800 Pennsylvania Avenue, one that he would be hosting. As for the planning, he left that to his secretary Angela White, a Harvard intern. On most days he would be found at his desk, reading over bills from Congress: running the Free World was a task which he took to with sincerity and integrity, and that hadn't changed even into the second year of his second term.

But today, at this hour, New Year's parties and energy bills were the last thing on this president's mind. Less than two minutes ago, he had received a call from General Benjamin Carville, the FORSCOM General currently visiting the Pentagon in Washington. The call was about a large assault force from the USSR making its way towards the United States: warships had been spotted in the Atlantic and Pacific, and there were reports of sightings along the Mexican border.

It didn't make any sense. Alexander Romanov was widely known as an advocate of peace: if anyone should know that, it was President Dugan. He had suggested his appointment to the position as Premier of the Soviet Union to the United Nations back in 1966, when he was the US ambassador to the UN. After telling Carville to verify with North American Aerospace Defense Command, he got on the wire to Moscow from the little red phone on his desk.

The call only confirmed what he had been told. Romanov refused to answer for why there was a large military force moving on American shores, and his demands to have the Russian Premier call off his troops were met with silence. Dugan had only one card left to play, and he prayed that he could bluff his way to a resolution. No nuclear weapon had been used by the United States against another sovereign nation since the War on Japan in 1945.

"You know we'll retaliate," he spoke into the mouth-piece, reminding Romanov of the precarious situation he was putting himself into.

"Oh, don't be so sure, Mr. President," the Russian Premier replied. There was a loud click, then only a dial-tone was heard on the phone. Dugan placed the phone back on the hook.

Romanov, usually congenial and warm, had called the President's bluff. It didn't sound like the 'Alex' that Dugan knew, but the presence of an invasion force certainly contradicted that. The intercom next to the phones shone red: Line 5 was making a call.

"Do we have verification?" President Dugan asked.

"You bet your ass, sir," Carville replied in his Texan drawl.

"Sweet Mother of God..." the President murmured in amazement and disbelief.

Then it was true. Dugan was now faced with an impossible choice. One phone call later and the Peacekeeper missiles would be on their way to Russia. Doubtless there were many civilians who would be killed in the heat blast and the fallout afterward, even if they exclusively targeted military installations. For the first term of his presidency, Dugan had enjoyed almost bipartisan support, and had one of the highest percentage of votes for his second term re-election. Many political pundits viewed him as the one that could unite the Republican and Democratic parties. If he made that call now, he would lose the support of one or both of those parties, and quite easily the American people. To say nothing of the moral burden he would now bear.

He sighed. He knew the choice that Truman had made in 1945; it was either use the atomic bombs or sacrifice five hundred thousand American and upward of nine million Japanese lives in a land invasion, one that might not even end the war. Now he, Michael Dugan, was faced with the same impossible situation; use the Peacekeeper ICBMs or sacrifice three hundred million American lives in an unprovoked invasion.

"It's time to hit back," President Dugan decided. "Make it happen."

"Yes, sir," Carville answered. The line went down as the General made 'the call.'

President Dugan then sat back in his chair at the Oval Office. He had made the impossible choice. During the first year of his office, he had been briefed on the Peacekeeper Defense System. In the unlikely event of an invasion, a primary target for a nuclear strike to cripple any potential military strength would be the industrial center of Stalingrad. One million Russians for three hundred million American lives. Dugan hoped that Romanov would see reason and another strike wouldn't be needed.

 _God be with them_ , Dugan sighed, praying for the Russian people. He wondered if He would understand the situation he was forced to make, or if He would forgive. He hoped that God would forgive him, for he knew that the American people certainly wouldn't.

* * *

 _1055 Pacific Time, December 31st, 1981_

"On the ground!" repeated the guard. "This is your last warning!

Vasily looked at the Adept at his right, then gestured with his eyes towards the watch-tower. They only had a brief moment to act, or they'd both be dead and even this last-ditch, likely futile, effort would also be in vain.

There was a shot fired, then the dog yelped, fell to the ground, pawing at its head. Both soldiers fell to their knees, hands upon their heads. Another shot was fired. The soldiers cried out and there was a loud crack of skulls. The air-raid siren continued roaring in the background, hiding their screams but not the sound of the guns. The watch-tower was now empty and close at hand there were three bodies; two Marines with their heads caved in and a German shepherd lying on his side. His eyes were closed, his tongue was lying out of his open mouth, and blood was pouring from his ears.

 _What happened?_ the female Adept thought. _The base is on alert, there's something about Defense Readiness Condition going up to one._

 _We're too late,_ Vasily projected. _The fueling has been finished. The missiles are ready to launch._

 _Don't give up, not yet,_ the woman replied. _They haven't launched yet, for all that we know. Don't forget, proselyte, Yuri is still with us. If you can get inside the base, you can prevent the launch._

With that, the Adepts ran the rest of the way toward the comm center. The outer door opened and they made their way down a hallway. Several people ran past them, but for the moment they were ignored. That was good for now, but they needed someone. One technician was going down the hallway, when suddenly he noticed the newcomers.

"Hey! You're not supposed to be here!" he announced. But no sooner had he spoken but Vasily had him in his control.

 _There is no time_ , he ordered. _Take me to a communications relay. I must speak with the underground missile base. Obey me._

The technician led the way into a room with a key-card lock and pass-code entry. He must have worked here quite often, for he had the card on him. Once the door opened, the four of them entered the control room.

"Is this the communications relay?" asked Vasily. "Answer me in truth."

"This console reaches the missile command base," the technician replied, gesturing to a computer console with a phone at it. "But it requires a code to access the lower base."

 _You will give me the code now,_ Vasily demanded.

"Victor Mike Charlie zero zero one," the technician quoted. No sooner had he spoken but he collapsed to the floor, brain dead. Vasily strode over the body, picked up the phone and typed in the code: VMC-001. A busy signal rang for about a minute; a minute too long for his liking. The missiles might already be on their way to Russia. Suddenly it went from busy to ringing, and no sooner then but it was answered.

"Missile command here," the voice on the other end answered.

 _Listen to my voice_ , Vasily thought, projecting his thoughts over the line. _Those missiles must not leave this base. Do everything within your power to stop the launch. You will not hesitate to kill to prevent this launch. You will not hesitate to allow yourself to die to prevent this launch. No matter what happens, the missiles will not launch._

The ground suddenly shook. Vasily had spent enough time in California to know of the frequency of earthquakes. But the shaking didn't stop. Vasily feared that they were too late, that the missile silos had already opened and the ICBMs were on their way to Russia. Urgently he ran outside of the communications relay and saw the entire base in chaos. On the other side of the fenced area, three columns of smoke were rising up from where the missile silos once lay.

 _It is done,_ the woman's thoughts spoke in Vasily's mind. _This will make Yuri proud. This victory is the first of many to come, proselyte._

 _Yuri will be proud of us,_ Vasily returned.

 _Now, go,_ the woman replied. _You were designated for command. You must survive and tell Yuri of our success._

 _What about you?_ he returned.

 _The Americans must not know of the existence of the Epsilon Psychic Corps,_ said the woman. _Not yet, not until the time has come; Yuri will find us!_

" _Nyet!_ " Vasily shouted, using his own words in addition to his mind. But there was no answer: the brain-waves of the Adept merely vanished. He sent his thoughts out, but they were not answered. He tried to contact the others, but they were not coming in either. Still filled with adrenaline from his mad dash to stop the launch, Vasily ran back into the control room of the relay station. Lying on the ground were the other two Adepts, both of them dead.

* * *

 _2200 Moscow Time. December 31st, 1981_

It was two hours to New Year's Day, the biggest celebration in Soviet Union. Less than five minutes ago, Alexander Romanov had gotten off the phone with the American President. The Americans were aware of the invasion force. He was now waiting on the next move from his adviser Yuri, who had told him not to worry himself about the American Peacekeeper Defense Network.

As for Yuri himself, he held to his ear the amplifier, sending his thoughts across the vast miles and the many time zones to earlier this day on the other side of the world. According to NKVD, the LGM-11 Peacekeeper intercontinental ballistic missile could strike the USSR within an hour of its launch. But his rook was now into position and he wanted to know what had happened in Vandenburg.

 _Master,_ the proselyte Adept known to the KGB as 'Vasily' replied to Yuri's mental query. _The missile silos have been destroyed. The American Peacekeeper missiles have been taken care of._

 _You have done well, proselyte_ , Yuri thought. _Our Russian comrades have been spared from the shame of defeat. I have need of you back in the USSR: follow through with your initial orders to return to Russia by plane from Canada. There is much work to be done, proselyte. Soon the world will learn..._

Meanwhile, Premier Romanov had been waiting for his adviser's success. He had been assured over and over that there would be no reason to fear the American's Peacekeeper Missile Defense Network. Now the fate of the Soviet Union, of the glorious crusade against the United States, hung in the balance.

"Is it done, Yuri?" Romanov asked.

Yuri removed the amplifying device from his ear and turned to the Premier, speaking in his characteristic whispering tone:

"No, Comrade Premier: it has only begun."

* * *

 **(AN: Hope this got everything off to a good [and VERY lengthy] start.** **If you missed the prologue, then let me reiterate that this is slight AU, meaning that some things will be different than in _RA2_. Of course, some things may still be the same.)**

 **(The Adept who was designated as "Vasily" in this episode is the one whose voice you hear in _Yuri's Revenge_ as the intelligence officer for Yuri's Army [called the Epsilon Army in this fic]: I say "designated" because that's not his real name. Also, since i'm delving into "mind control" here, it seems kind of odd that an Adept [or PsiCorp trooper if you prefer the more familiar term] could mind control a tank, or even a Humvee. Think about it: most military vehicles have a driver and a gunner, and it is implied that mind control only works with one Adept per victim [therefore, an Adept couldn't mind control everyone in the vehicle all at once]. So I found a way to get around that for this instance. Obviously the genetically modified brains of a Mastermind or a super-control device like the Psychic Beacon are able to assert greater control, but that will be discussed in time.)  
**

 **(Don't worry; we'll introduce more of the Allies in the next chapter.)**


	2. Red Dawn

**(AN: Maybe it's because i spend too much time playing video games, or that i'm supposed to be doing things besides, well that, but i usually play games to enjoy them and to pass the time, NOT to get ass-fucked by difficulty that makes you hate everyone and everything [looking at you, _Dark Souls,_ _Starcraft_ and every RTS modder ever!] However, it does make for good story-telling to have a very difficult opponent, especially in one that is set during a war, like this one. There will also be another reason why so much time passes between the events of the last chapter and this one, in case "wanted it to be harder on our main characters" isn't a good enough reason.)**

 **(Onto some lighter things. Possibly the best piece of _C &C_ fan media is the _Fast Facts_ video for _Command and Conquer_. Right off the bat it has this adorable cartoon Ranger humvee from _RA1_ with oogly eyes looking this way and that: he drives into the screen with a frown, then [using the actual quote from the game] declares "Vehicle reporting" with a gigantic smile on his face. Also, the places mentioned in this story, though inspired by real locations, are fictionalized.)**

* * *

 **Red Dawn**

 _0600 Eastern Time, January 1st, 1982_

"Attention! Defense Response Condition at level 2. All personnel report to the airfield for immediate transfer. This is not a drill."

The base at Fort Knox was in turmoil, like a hornet's nest roused by a foolish child. Air-raid sirens were going off, men in full combat gear were running here and there, and a loudspeaker was shouting orders. At the airfield, several CH-47 Chinook helicopters were waiting to receive the troops. A young lieutenant was on his way into one of the choppers: it was his first tour of active duty since his graduation from the Reserve Officers' Training Corps. As he arrived at one helicopter, a man with the captain insignia on the shoulder of his uniform approached him. Recognizing the superior rank, the lieutenant saluted.

"Given the circumstances, Andrews," the captain replied. "We can dismiss with protocol for the time being. Get your ass on the chopper a-sap."

Lieutenant Andrews followed the captain as they walked up the back ramp of one of the helicopters. Within two minutes, and under the captain's urging for the 'ladies' under his command to hustle 'with purpose', the cargo bay was filled with soldiers. The next moment and they were lifting off, with Fort Knox disappearing below from the rounded portals in the chopper.

"Captain Lowe," Lieutenant Andrews said, his voice raised over the rushing of the rotors. "Do you mind telling me what the hell's going on? Was hoping for a little New Year's RnR."

"I'm afraid it'll have to wait, Andrews," Captain Lowe returned. "We've got a hell of a situation on our hands. At approximately 0523 local time, Coast Guard caught sight of several warships in the Atlantic. We're getting in reports of similar sightings on the West Coast."

"Origin?"

"Russian," Captain Lowe said. "Pentagon has called all reserve officers into active duty. That means you're going to DC, captain."

"Captain?" Andrews asked.

"You've been promoted," Captain Lowe added. "Congratulations."

"Any idea why?" Andrews asked.

"You'll be debriefed once we reach Washington," Captain Lowe said. "For now, just try to relax: it's going to be a long flight and you won't have much time for any relaxing once we land in DC."

It was over three hundred and forty miles from Fort Knox to Washington DC, the capital of the United States: fortunately, the Chinook's ferry range was more than double that. The hardest part would be the waiting: three hours of sitting in an uncomfortable seat high up in the air. Despite having fears and weaknesses metaphorically beaten out during his training, Andrews hated flying.

Brian 'Goldilocks' Andrews. His drill sergeant had given him the nickname because of his blond hair, which seemed to grow back quicker than he could keep it trimmed. Once he made Lieutenant, he let his hair grow out, but kept it trimmed to the tips of his ears in compliance with regulations.

Born and raised in a little town in southeastern Tennessee, Brian was the youngest of three from a family that had been renowned for their military service. Jack Andrews, Brian's father, had fought in the War in the East against Japan, and volunteered to fight the Russians in the War in Europe in the 50s; his father also, James Andrews, had fought in the Great World War of 1914. Every member of the family had served their country, and it was more or less expected of them to do the same. The eldest son, named after his grandfather, was currently stationed at Fort Worth Texas, and his wife and infant son had moved there to be closer to him. Their sister Melissa, commonly known as Lyssa, was at the Air Force Academy in Colorado; she had joined the Air-Force as a pilot.

* * *

 _0901 Eastern Time, January 1st, 1982_

The Chinook made its descent towards the city of Arlington, on the southern bank of the Potomac River. Even from the air, the newly promoted Captain Andrews could hear the wailing of sirens down below in the city streets. As they approached, Captain Andrews saw outside of his window a site that he thought he would never see in his life, much less this close: the Pentagon, the headquarters of the Defense Department. Turning to his left, he saw Captain Lowe was talking to someone on the radio in his head-set: he had been talking for almost an hour into their flight.

"I understand, sir," Lowe said. "We'll be right there. Lowe out." He then turned to Andrews. "Looks like you'll have to take on DC all by yourself, Captain."

"What, sir?" Andrews returned. "Repeat that again."

"We're dropping you off at the Pentagon," Lowe replied. "You'll be briefed on your assignment by General Carville. Here's where we part ways, Captain. I've been sent to take command of Fort Bradley in New York City."

The helicopter finally came to land on a helipad outside of the Pentagon. The loading ramp was lowered in the rear and Captain Andrews made his way down the ramp.

"Good luck, Captain!" Lowe shouted back. "Give 'em hell!"

"With a purpose, Captain!" Andrews replied, turning back to farewell his former CO with a crisp salute.

Captain Andrews turned about and saw a welcoming 'party' of three. Two were enlisted men, armed with M4 carbines, and the third was a brunette woman in uniform: a navy blue jacket and black skirt. From her insignia, Andrews saw that she was a lieutenant. She saluted him and he returned the gesture.

"Captain Andrews, I presume?" she said, talking loudly over the still-spinning twin Chinook blades.

"Yes, sir," he returned.

"Lieutenant Lee," she returned. "I'm with the State Defense Department. General Carville has ordered me to fill you in on the situation. But we're pressed for time, so if you'll follow me, we'll get right down to business."

They made their way from the helipad as the Chinook was departing behind them. At the door, Lieutenant Lee opened the door for Captain Andrews, who was technically above her in rank. They passed into the Pentagon hall, while the lieutenant filled Brian in on the situation.

"At approximately 1300 hours Eastern Time yesterday," she began. "NORAD picked up a massive Soviet fleet entering US waters. By 0500 Pacific Time today they were just off-shore."

"Are you saying we're under attack?" Captain Andrews interjected.

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Lee replied. "It gets worse, I'm afraid. Scattered reports are coming in of armored vehicles moving north through the Mexican border. Our Peacekeeper Defense Network is down and many of our company commanders have gone missing: presumed dead."

"What about my promotion?" Captain Andrews asked. "You at the DoD should know that I was a first lieutenant just yesterday."

"With the sudden and unexpected shortage of company commanders," Lieutenant Lee continued. "You've been given a field promotion." They came to a door, on which was the name: _General Ben. Carville, FORSCOM._ Here the lieutenant stopped and turned to Captain Andrews. "If you survive today, you might just earn it for real." She added with a smirk, then opened the door.

Inside the office, filled with memorabilia from the War in Europe, as well as a framed photograph of George S. Patton, the US Army General who was part of the War against Japan, was the general. He was bald and had only a short, bristling gray mustache above his lips. He didn't address them right away, for he was on the phone with someone; he also didn't seem to be too pleased with whoever he was talking with.

"Who again?" he asked. "The Vice President? Well, what the hell is he doing in Colorado? Look, you tell that son of a b*tch to get his ass back to Washington. The Commander-in-Chief's doing his duty, ain't no reason the VP can't do his. No, you use those exact words, do you hear me? Bye." He hung up the phone, then rose to his guests. Both Lieutenant Lee and Captain Andrews saluted; the General returned the gesture.

"Captain Andrews," the General greeted. "Good to see you're not dead either. Can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting you, but we'll have to save the niceties for another time. We've got a hell of a situation on our hands. Those commie bastards are making a move on our soil: we cannot let that happen!" He pounded his fist on the top of his desk. He cleared his throat, then continued.

"The President will be going south to San Antonio to meet with Pedro Alvarez, the president of Mexico." Carville continued. "But Air-Force One has been ordered to remain airborne until the DC area is clear. Our best Intel, or what it used to be: I mean, dammit, why the hell couldn't we have seen this sooner?" He mumbled to himself for a moment, then caught himself rambling. "Anyway, we've sighted several smaller hovercraft and transport planes heading this way. The Reds are thinking of making a quick sweep into this area and take out the Defense Department. We need you to prove 'em wrong." He nodded. "That'll be all, captain. The lieutenant will give you the details as they come." He made his way back to his seat as Lieutenant Lee and Captain Andrews made their way to the door.

"Oh, and by the way," General Carville interjected. "Congratulations on the promotion."

Once they left the General's office, Lieutenant Lee turned to Captain Andrews.

"It looks like we'll be working together," she said. "I'll have a car waiting to bring you to our defense perimeter along the Potomac, where we believe the Soviet hovercraft will make land-fall. It's not a large force, but we should be able to direct more troops your way once we've assessed the defensive condition on our three fronts. Hold out until the reinforcements arrive, then we'll be able to push the Soviet invaders out of DC."

"Yes, sir," Captain Andrews returned. "I'll get to it right away."

"Very good," Lieutenant Lee said. "I'll stay here and provide you with up-to-date Intel. I don't think I need to remind you that, above all else, the Soviets must not reach the Pentagon. If they do, they'll destroy the Pentagon and we'll be helpless against their invasion."

"Understood," Andrews nodded.

"Good luck out there, sir," Lieutenant Lee said.

* * *

In less than ten minutes, Captain Andrews had arrived at the defense perimeter and taken command. Immediately he went about assessing how it had been readied and what needed to be done. GIs armed with DSR-80 anti-material rifles and M72 Light Anti-Armor Weapon Systems were set up in buildings at areas believed to be possible landing sites. As far as vehicles were concerned, four M41 Bulldog light tanks and four M1126 Stryker IFVs were available.

"Those Strykers should be protected at all costs, sir," a Private Donovan said. "They're equipped with the new 'Mist' missiles; they can hit ground and aerial targets. The rocket pod is small, and the Adaptive System allows a passenger to the Remote Weapons System: in short, it allows the passenger to re-purpose the secondary armament to whatever he has on hand."

"Understood, private," Captain Andrews returned.

Andrews' command center was in an office building near the defense perimeter, which had been barricaded with sandbags, windows boarded with wooden boards, and razor wire drawn around the base. There was a radio, which he had kept on the Pentagon's channel, where he checked in with Lieutenant Lee, as well as a map of the Arlington-DC region. On the map Andrews made a few quick marks with a blue pen, indicating where their forces were located.

At the end of ten minutes, the radio buzzed with activity and Captain Andrews was called to hear what was being said.

"This is Andrews, reading you, Pentagon, over," he said.

"Sir, the Soviet fleet have been spotted," Lieutenant Lee's voice was heard over the other line. "They're making their amphibious landing as we speak. There are also several aircraft in-bound."

"Pyle!" Captain Andrews called to one of the men nearby. "What do you see on the river-front?"

"C-Confirmed, sir!" stammered Private Pyle. "There's a shit-load of boats out there."

"Come again, private?" Captain Andrews asked, handing the radio communications device back to the technician as he walked over to the window where Private Pyle was watching down-river. The private handed Captain Andrews the binoculars he was using and directed him where to look.

"Permission to speak freely, captain?"

"Go ahead, private." Andrews returned.

"Sir, this hasn't ever happened before," he replied. "No one's dared to attack America on her own soil."

Captain Andrews was about to speak, but suddenly halted. He could see, down river, large warships and light landing craft making their way northward. Furthermore, there were also several airplanes flying with the fleet, some of them so far away they were little more than dots on the horizon.

"I understand," Captain Andrews replied. "You're scared, aren't you, private?"

"Well, hell, aren't you?" the private asked, then suddenly added. "Sir, I mean. This is our home!"

"We don't have the luxury to be scared, Private Pyle," Captain Andrews returned. He then handed the binoculars back to the private and walked over to the radio. "Lewis, open a channel to the other sergeants. I'd like to have a word with the company."

"Right away, sir," Private Lewis, the technician, replied. Thirty seconds later, she announced: "Channel's ready, sir." Captain Andrews took the speaker and walked out towards the window.

"This is Captain Andrews speaking," he announced. "I want you all to go to the nearest window and take a look out at the fleet coming up-river. Yes, go ahead and look. It's there, and it's coming for us. Now I know you've had the best training in the world, and despite that, right now you're shaking on down to your boots. But right now we need to keep our heads together. We're the first line of defense: we need to hold them back, we need to keep them from coming any further into our country. Remember that your families stand behind you: protect them. Remember your brothers and sisters in arms standing beside you: show them respect by standing your ground. Remember the enemy standing in front of you: show them no mercy."

Suddenly there was a loud boom heard from behind them. On the radio, there came from one of the garrisoned low-rises upstream Corporal Williams, one of the officers under Captain Andrews' command.

"The commie fleet just launched a missile," Corporal Williams reported. "They've taken out 14th Street bridge!"

"I hear you, Corporal," Captain Andrews replied. "Stand your ground and await further orders."

"Contact!" Private Donovan shouted from the front of the garrison, where several rocket-launchers were positioned. "Soviet armored transport in LAWS range!"

"Fire at will, private!" Captain Andrews ordered.

"Light 'em up!" bellowed Private Donovan. The roaring of missiles from the M72s reverberated throughout the building.

"Report, private!" the captain ordered.

"Direct hits, sir!" Private Donovan began, then carried off.

"Repeat that last, private!"

"Sir, we made six direct hits within max effective range," Private Donovan continued. "These transports shrugged off our rockets like they were nothing. They're still coming, sir."

"Reload and fire again!" ordered the captain. "Nothing's invincible, private, we just need to find their weakness."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Private Donovan replied.

"Corporal Williams on the line, sir!" Private Lewis called from the comm-station. Captain Andrews picked up the phone.

"We've made contact, sir!" Williams' voice triumphantly reported. "The Reds tried to sneak a hovercraft around the southern bank: one of our rockets punctured the rubber skirt and sent their passengers for a little swim in the Potomac."

"Good work, corporal," Captain Andrews returned. "Keep on 'em, don't give them an inch of American soil."

"Sir!" Private Donovan cried out from the windows. Captain Andrews put the phone down and jogged over to where Donovan was assisting Private Jones loading his M72.

"What is it, private?" the captain asked.

"They're still coming through, sir!" Private Donovan declared. "Even after another round, those armored transports aren't even slowing down."

"Understood, keep shooting," Andrews replied, then made his way back to the comm-station.

"This is Captain Andrews," he announced, picking up the comm-device. "The Reds are deploying heavily armored amphibious transports along with their hovercraft. Concentrate all fire on these armored transports."

"Can you repeat that, sir?" Corporal Williams shouted. "We have airplanes overhead."

"Concentrate all fire on heavy amphibious transport targets," Andrews repeated.

"Sir!" Private Lewis said. "It's Lieutenant Lee on line one."

"Put her on," Captain Andrews replied.

"Captain," the voice of the lieutenant spoke. "The Soviets are dropping tanks and paratroopers behind the defense perimeter. Make sure they don't reach the Pentagon!"

"Understood, Andrews out," he replied. He then ordered Private Lewis to open a channel to Sergeant Conner.

"Sir!" Private Donovan exclaimed. "We got one!"

"Come again, private?" Andrews demanded as he made his way towards the front.

"One of those armored transports, sir," Private Donovan replied. "They have rubber skirts like the hovercraft, and they must be damn heavy, sir. One of our rockets hit the skirt and it went down like a stone!"

"Sir!" Private Lewis cried. "It's Corporal Williams."

Captain Andrews made his way back to the radio as the private turned the audio on.

"There's too many of them, sir!" Corporal Williams reported. "They just keep coming, no matter how many we take down. They've forced a landing on the southern b...keep firing!"

"What was that?" Captain Andrews asked.

"One of their armored transports broke through the wall of...ahh!" The channel suddenly died.

"Come in!" Captain Andrews shouted. "Corporal Williams, come in!"

"Captain!" Private Pyle cried as he came running down from the upper level of the building. "We've lost Corporal Williams' unit. Those armored transports are armed with flamethrowers; they never stood a chance!"

"Sergeant Conner's ready, sir!" Lewis reported.

"Sergeant," Captain Andrews ordered. "The Reds are dropping tanks and troops behind our defensive line. Search out and destroy all targets."

"Roger that, sir!" Sergeant Conner replied. "Me and the boys have been itching to get the lead out."

"Good to hear that, Sergeant," Andrews grinned. Like himself, Luke Conner was a native of Tennessee. "Mind keeping the home-front secure while you're at it?"

"Sure thing, sir," Sergeant Conner stated. "We'll keep those commie bastards off your ass for a while. Conner out."

"Captain!" Private Donovan shouted. "Those armored transports are forcing a landing."

"Take 'em out!" the captain ordered. "Don't let them get close, they're armed with flamethrowers."

"Sir, it's Lieutenant Lee!" Private Lewis cried out. "She says its urgent." Captain Andrews ran back to the radio. "Andrews here."

"Captain, be advised!" Lieutenant Lee said on the line: her voice sounded urgent. "The Soviets paratroopers have landed in the Arlington-DC area. They're targeting civilians: stop them any way you can."

"Understand," Captain Andrews replied. "We'll send some troops to assist."

"Captain!" Private Donovan shouted. "Those armored transports are moving on this position. Our rockets aren't holding 'em off."

"Holy shit," grumbled Andrews beneath his breath. He then ran over to the stair-well and called down to the soldiers below: "Sergeant, get your men out of there!"

But it was too late. The building shook as the massive bulldozer maw on the front of the armored transports crashed through the wall between two windows. The GIs at the windows managed to jump out of the way, but they didn't last long. Instead of driving forward into the building, the transport pulled back and unleashed a wave of flaming napalm into the bottom level. Cries and screams of agony were all that answered Captain Andrews from the lower level.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, stepping away from the stairwell as an arc of fire poured towards him. Now he was getting angry: at the Reds for invading his homeland and ruthlessly slaughtering the men under his command, and at himself for being unable to stop the invaders or save the men under his command.

"Get some men down here a-sap!" he shouted. "Pyle, get your ass over here with the DSR-80!"

Three GIs took up positions at the top of the stairwell, each of them armed with M4A1 auto-rifles. Behind them came Private Pyle, carrying a DSR-80.

"Sir!" Pyle said. "I'm in reconnaissance!"

"Well, now you're watching our asses here," Captain Andrews replied. He knocked over a table that had been pushed aside during the garrisoning, then dragged it to the top of the stairs and placed it in front of Pyle's DSR-80. Even as they were setting up, from downstairs they heard a voice shouting in Russian.

" _Idti, tovarishchi! Idti!_ "

"Get the captain!" Lewis' voice could be heard from the other side of the room.

"Hold your positions, men!" Captain Andrews said as he knelt down besides Private Pyle behind the table. "Don't fire unless fired upon went out the window when they burned your brothers downstairs. You have a target, you take it, dammit! Understand?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" shouted the GIs to Andrews right and left.

With that, Andrews took out his M9 Beretta. He was burning with rage and eager to open a can of whoop-ass on the Soviets. They had killed members of his unit, under his command: so he was going to make sure that none of the Soviet invaders left this building alive.

"Captain!" Private Gonzalez shouted.

"Contact!" one of the GIs on the captain's right shouted.

A hail of bullets rained down upon the Soviet soldiers as they made their way up the stairwell. The gas-masks might have kept the fumes and gases of their Borillo transport's flame attack from hurting them, but the heavy brown coats didn't stop the bullets fired from the M4A1s above them. Most of them died before they had a chance to fire a shot at the defenders above them: but that did not deter their advance.

"They just keep coming!" Private Pyle shouted.

"Private Martin!" Captain Andrews shouted to one of the GIs on his right. "Close that gap!"

"Fire in the hole!" Private Martin shouted as he pulled the pin out of a grenade on his bandolier and sent it bouncing down the stairs towards the advancing Soviet soldiers.

" _Granata!_ " came a cry in Russian from downstairs. But before the Soviets could react, the building shook as the explosive charge set the frag grenade off. Aside from the roaring of rocket launchers from the windows and the deafening thud of distant cannon-fire, there was no sound of advance.

Suddenly there came the sound of heavy boots marching up the stairs. The GIs at the front braced themselves for whatever else the Soviets would throw at them.

"Captain!" Private Gonzalez, who had taken cover during the first assault, called up during the cessation.

"Get your head down, private!" Captain Andrews ordered.

"Sir!" the young man replied. "It's Lewis at the comm. She says there's a priority one message from the lieutenant for you."

"Sweet mother of..." Private Martin exclaimed.

Looking back down the stairs, Captain Andrews was hard-pressed not to give a similar response. Marching up the stairs were three men that looked like knights, covered in heavy plate armor with a domed helmet over their heads.

"Open fire!" Captain Andrews shouted.

A hail of bullets came from the GIs at the top of the stairs, and all they heard was the sound of lead bullets clanging off the plate armor of the advancing soldiers. There was a blinding white flash and Private Martin gave a loud, agonizing cry, then fell back to the ground: his body was burned to a blackened crisp.

"Pyle, use the DSR!" Captain Andrews shouted. "Gonzalez, take Martin's place."

The heavy machine-gun roared as it spit hot lead at the armored troopers. Luckily, the anti-material bullets pierced the plate armor and one by one, the armored soldiers collapsed under the weight of their heavy armor as the bullets shredded through them. With the GIs providing covering fire, Captain Andrews ran back to the comm-room and ordered Private Lewis to put him through with Lieutenant Lee.

"Captain, be advised!" Lieutenant Lee warned. "The Soviets are fielding massive airships along with their ground troops. Captain Lowe at Fort Bradley says they're armed with high-explosive bombs that can level buildings in seconds. You cannot let them reach the Pentagon!"

"Copy, we're being swamped out here!" Andrews replied.

"We're sending over reinforcements as we speak," Lieutenant Lee informed. "These M248 Self-Propelled Anti-Aircraft Guns, nicknamed 'Aeroblaze' by our RnD department, should make quick work of those airships."

"I read you!" Andrews added. "We need some armor too! There's tanks outside on the streets, heading your way."

"Roger," Lieutenant Lee replied. "I'll see about getting you some Abrams tanks for support."

"Sure would help a hell of a lot," Andrews replied. "Out..."

But no sooner had he closed the channel when a shot from a tank shook the upper level, sending a cloud of debris into the comm station. Behind them, the windows had been blown out and most of the LAWS-firing GIs were now dead, including Private Donovan.

"Pack it up," Captain Andrews ordered. "We're moving out of here."

"What?" Private Lewis interjected.

"That's an order!" Andrews repeated. He then made his way into the outer hall and ordered a 'sound off' to see who was still left of his unit.

"Form up here!" he added, waving towards the top of the stairs. "This building's coming down, and if you ladies don't want to go down with it, shake a leg now! Let's hustle!" What was left of the unit now gathered around the captain at the top of the stairs.

"York, Pyle, Gonzalez, you're on point," he ordered. "Jenkins, Kucan, you have the rear. The rest of you, follow me. Keep watch and fire on contact. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" they replied.

* * *

 _1600 Greenwich Time. January 1st, 1982_

Prime Minister Cumberland was giving a speech in front of several reporters from the British Broadcasting Center. Apparently news of the invasion of the United States by the Soviet Union was already traveling fast around the globe.

"It is truly a great tragedy," he said. "I speak for Her Majesty when I say that all of the Britain weeps for America. However, it is in the public's best interest to refuse getting entangled in the war-mongering affairs of the United States of America."

"Prime Minister!" a reporter interjected. "It's been rumored that the Soviet Union attacked America. How is this the fault of American war-mongering?"

"The influence of the United States is everywhere!" Cumberland continued. "They are the stronghold of capitalism for the western world: they have antagonized the Russian Bear and brought this great tragedy down upon themselves. My party is adamant that a platform of non-involvement will show Premier Romanov that Britain desires only peace and goodwill to all."

"It's been reported, Prime Minister," another reporter queried. "That several calls from the White House have been received by your office. Is this so?"

Cumberland's winning smile fell. He feared that someone had leaked information. "Yes, it is true that President Dugan has attempted to contact our office."

"And can you tell us what those calls were about, Prime Minister?" the first reporter asked.

"The American President," Cumberland continued. "Called our office, begging for military assistance, hoping to drag the British public into another awful war, such as happened in the 1950s against Josef Stalin's regime on the mainland. Surely this is another example of ruthless, bloodthirsty American war-mongering."

"What answer has your office given the American President?" the second reporter inquired.

"I told that cowering old Yank that this office is not under his command," Cumberland said, to the cheers and applause of several gathered outside of the ring of reporters. "I told him that the lives of the British public are not his to expend. To be perfectly frank with you, I told him and his people to bugger off and fix their own damn problems. If they want to antagonize the world, they'll have to reap the fruits of their labour. But no matter what happens to them, England will survive. England prevails!"

With that, and amid a storm of reporter questions and flashes from their cameras, Prime Minister Cumberland stepped down from the platform. There were quite a few other words he wanted to add to his list of diatribes, but he had decided at the last minute not to. As he was on his way to his vehicle, McKenna walked up to him with a file.

"Sir," she said. "This just came in from President Thoreau."

The Prime Minister opened the file and examined the papers: each of which bore the seal of Canada. After reading the report, a smile appeared on the Prime Minister's face.

"Can he confirm this?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so, sir." McKenna replied.

"Get a hold of Tucker's office," he added, handing her back the file as he opened the car door and entered. "I want this around the clock on every news station in Britain."

"Yes, sir," McKenna nodded.

* * *

 _0940 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982_

Captain Andrews and what remained of the unit garrisoned in the apartment building were now making their way downstairs. They moved carefully, so as to not trip over the bodies of the slain Soviet soldiers that had been gunned down on their attempt to take the top story. Private Gonzalez gave one of the armored soldiers a kick: seeing a fellow soldier incinerated before one's eyes tended to have a powerful psychological impact. As such, flamethrowers rarely survived if they were captured; nor would Tesla troopers, it seemed.

As they were making their way down the stairs, Captain Andrews suddenly called for a halt. The lower level was smoldering from the flame attack and there was great heat radiating from the bottom of the stairs.

"Quiet now," he muttered. "If my guess is correct, that transport is still down there. We set foot down there, we'll be burned to a crisp, just like Private Martin."

"And if we don't get out of here fast, sir," Private Pyle added. "This whole building will collapse in around us."

"What about a fire-escape?" Gonzalez asked.

"I think the tank-shot took that out," Lewis added.

"Damn," groaned Captain Andrews. "Alright, do we have any plastic explosives? Something to break a hole in this wall."

"But sir, that's concrete!" Pyle stated.

"Let's hope it's not shock-absorbing," the captain returned.

"Sir," Private York added. "We won't have enough time to drill a hole big enough for a grenade."

"Do we have any heavier explosives?"

"No, sir." Jenkins returned.

"Dammit!" shouted Andrews. "Alright, we're just gonna have to improvise. Pyle, do you have a periscope on you?"

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"Give me the gun," Andrews ordered. "Then check around the corner, see if that armored transport is still there."

Private Pyle handed the captain the large DSR-80 as he plucked out his periscope and aimed the sights around the other side of the wall.

"It's there, sir," Pyle answered. "A massive thing. About twelve feet wide, with a large bulldozer scooper-blade on the front; can't see a length, but it's easily the size of one of our Abrams tanks."

"Shit!" groaned Andrews. Trapped, and for all he knew, these armored transports could take one, two, or even as many as four rockets from a LAWS and keep on coming. "How far away is it?"

"I'd say a little bit more than twenty feet away," Pyle replied. "Too close for rockets."

"Any chance of bringing the top story down on it?" asked Private York. "We could bury it, be able to get around it that way."

"We'd risk burying ourselves with it," Captain Andrews replied. "Do we have any flash-bangs?"

"Yes, sir," Private Jenkins replied. "But that won't do much against an armored transport."

"Right now," Captain Andrews answered. "We just need to get past it. We'll figure out how to destroy it once we're out of here." He brought Pyle back and called for a huddle.

"Here's how this is gonna work," the captain began, speaking in a low voice. "York, Jenkins, Gonzalez, you three take point. Throw a flash-grenade then leg it roughly straight from here towards the blade. You'll have about two seconds before it flashes, then throw the next one. Stay low and keep your eyes shut to avoid being blinded by the flash. If you make it to the blade, keep your ass down as low as possible: if you're spotted, you die. We'll have to do this quietly, so move on my signal: is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," they muttered.

Captain Andrews' throat went dry. This plan was absolutely ludicrous, as he knew from the moment he began speaking it. The flashes may not even last long enough to give them cover to escape from right in front of a flame-throwing armored transport. Even if they did, something would certainly go wrong: it wasn't even midday and he had already lost Corporal Williams' unit and the command post and most of his LAWS missile GIs.

But he had to try, for the sake of rescuing the squad currently under his command: never leave a man behind. The country might be lost, for all he knew, but in this moment he was determined to keep his company alive no matter what. His options were limited: either risk all on a hair-brained escape attempt, burn to death when the fire caught up to them, or be crushed when the building came down.

With his left hand, he gestured forward towards the bottom of the stairs. Private York tossed his flash-bang around the corner, then ran forward with his hands over his eyes. A bright white flash burst onto the opposite wall at the bottom of the stairs, then Private Jenkins followed suit. Gonzalez came up next and, guarding his eyes, threw another flash-bang even as Jenkins' burst into light. One by one the group started piling down the stairs and out into the bottom level. At the end were Kucan and Pyle, then Lewis and last of all the captain. As Lewis carried most of the radio equipment, Captain Andrews had taken three extra flash-bangs to cover her escape: since it would be the slowest of them for carrying the gear.

As soon as Private Pyle descended down the stairs, Captain Andrews threw a flash-bang down the stairs and out into the first floor. Private Lewis started making her way and he after her, keeping his head down and feeling the grenade belt tied around his waist. As he had the hardest job of going in blind and throwing three flash-bangs almost back to back, he had borrowed Private Kucan's belt so the flash-bangs were easy to reach.

Bent over, head low, and with one hand over his eyes and the other reaching out, groping like a blind man, Captain Andrews crossed the twenty-six feet from the bottom of the stairs to the blade-maw of the Borillo. Behind him came Private Lewis, carrying the radio equipment. As she brought up the rear, she tripped over a brick that had been thrown out of the wall when the Borillo crashed through and fell onto the floor.

But down doesn't always mean out. Basic training came back to her and Private Lewis began crawling forward on her stomach. Just a few feet more and she'd be safe. One arm over the other, slowly and quietly. At last she felt the metal blade beneath her arms and gasped with relief: Private Lewis had come dangerously short of leaving behind a fiance and five month old son without her.

"Good work, all of you," Captain Andrews whispered, but it sounded like gasps his heart was pounding so fiercely: he hadn't expected to make it this far without incident. "Now, if we can get around this vehicle, we can make it across the street to the other side of the building across from us."

"They've probably been wiped out," Private Pyle replied.

"We're not leaving anyone behind," Captain Andrews returned. "Now quit fussing and form up behind me. We move in three...two...one...go!"

With that, Captain Andrews led the way around to the Borillo's side and out of the hole it had made in their building. Luckily for them, the flamethrower cannon was stationary and could not swivel around to fire at them: they couldn't have known, as the bulldozer blade's upward maw prevented them from seeing the flame cannon. No sooner had they gotten out of the building but they saw a group of men in brown coats guarding the entrance.

" _Stoporit!_ " one shouted.

Too late. York unleashed a carefully aimed hail of bullets towards them: two went down and a third was injured. On his right, Jenkins dropped two more: one with a shot to the head. On the left, Gonzalez, who was still burning up from seeing Private Martin fried by the Tesla trooper, shouted " _Ruso puto!_ " before unleashing a fully automatic salvo of death on the last two.

"Double-time!" Captain Andrews shouted as they dropped the squad of Russian invaders. "Someone's bound to have heard that." As they made their way past the fallen Soviets, Andrews handed the DSR-80 back to Private Pyle, then took out his Beretta M9 and put a bullet into the gas-mask of the soldier. Maybe not the most chivalrous decision, but he couldn't let the Reds know where his unit was going, or that they were still alive.

In no time they had crossed the street and broken down the door into the next building. After Private York shouted "Clear!", they filed inside. Private Lewis' radio equipment was damaged, but other than that they were all present and accounted for.

"We can worry about the radio later," Captain Andrews said to his men. "Right now, we need to get to the roof. If the other group is still in this building, we'll use their radio. Do we have any LAWS left?"

"Three, maybe," Private Gonzalez returned. "We lost all our ammo when that tank shell took out Donovan and the others."

"Well, we just need one, I think," Captain Andrews said. "If we can get to the top of that building, we should have a clear shot at the sky. Last transmission said that the Reds were fielding airship bombers to attack the Pentagon. Let's hope we're not too late and can still take them down before they reach the Pentagon." He paused to take breath, then gestured with his hand towards the stairs.

* * *

 _0955 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982_

In ten minutes they made it to the top of the roof. So far the other company hadn't been found on any level they had seen and there was no sign of an attack. On the roof they could see, coming across from the river, three large zeppelins painted with grinning shark mouths and red eyes.

"Inbound, four o'clock!" Captain Andrews shouted. "Get some heat on those blimps!"

The three GIs from the tank-hunting squad they had set up on the roof, aimed their LAWS skyward and waited for the order.

"Hold for my signal!" Captain Andrews said. "We only have three shots, so we've gotta make 'em count. Ready?"

"On your mark, sir!" a GI replied.

"Fire one!"

A rocket shot out of the LAWS and made a bee-line towards one of the airships. A ball of flame exploded from the side of the zeppelin as the rocket struck the massive envelope. It began to slightly descend, losing altitude moment by moment: but it was still not down and there were two more of them.

"Fire two!" the captain ordered.

Another rocket fired at the zeppelin. As they were moving slower than top-speed, the massive blimp provided an easy target. Another hit, but all it did was cause the zeppelin to fall faster.

Andrews readied a call for the last rocket to be fired, when suddenly the building shook with a mighty explosion.

"What the hell was that?" Andrews shouted.

"We've got company!" Private Pyle replied. "Tanks at ten o'clock!"

"Take position over at Pyle!" the captain ordered. "Fire at the first tank you see." He knew that there was nothing else he could do. If the tanks got off one good shot, it would mean the death of his company.

"Got 'em!" the GI shouted. "Tank destroyed."

"Get back here, private!" Captain Andrews ordered.

Then suddenly several things happened. A series of loud, percussive blasts were heard from down below. Those watching the zeppelins saw crimson beams lancing up from the ground, striking the hull of the zeppelins in tiny bursts of flame. Again another deafening boom was heard from below: but there was no explosion on the building.

"Pyle, what the hell's going on?" Captain Andrews asked.

"There's an armored division down there, sir!" Pyle said. "It looks like ours, but they've got reinforcements! There's three Abrams tanks and some kind of SPAAG: it's shootin' lasers at the blimps."

"Friendlies," Captain Andrews sighed in relief. "The lieutenant did say they were sending help."

Within less than a minute, fire caught on the envelope of the zeppelin, which was now coming down fast into the city streets. A cheer rose up from some of the company, while others went towards the edge and started waving for the tank company below to notice them. The captain told them to stop, but they called him forward.

"Look, sir!" Private Pyle said. "They're pushing the commies back!"

Sure enough, below they could see, in the streets, one of the Soviet tanks had stopped and was letting out a column of black smoke. Other smaller vehicles, half-tracks the captain guessed by the look of them, were driving away in all directions as the three Abrams tanks and three of the four Bulldog light tanks from Sergeant Conner's division were pursuing them. One of the three M41 light tanks broke off from the main column and started driving down the street towards them.

"Form up!" Captain Andrews cried with a smile on his face. The unit packed up and made their way down the stairs. They were no more than half-way down when there was a slight tremor, then all was still: certainly not quiet, for the sounds of machine-gun and cannon-fire could still be heard.

At last the company gained the streets again. They saw the cause of the tremor: the burning carcass of one of the zeppelins had crashed to the ground and was now on fire, burning up whatever remained of it. Near at hand was the light tank that had broken rank: as they waited, the hatch popped off and there stood Sergeant Jackson O. Conner.

"Well, I'll be damned, cap'n!" Sergeant Conner greeted. "Ain't you a sight for sore eyes. Where ya been? Thought them commie bastards had gotten to you. We couldn't raise you on the horn."

"Radio was damaged," Captain Andrews replied. He had quite forgotten about protocol and hadn't ordered a salute. "Looks like you arrived just in time."

"No time to celebrate, sir," Sergeant Conner continued. "Them armored transports are makin' havoc of our boys. These commie tanks ain't too much to handle: the Bulldogs can keep on the run long enough to avoid takin' straight shots, and nobody's got the balls to go toe-to-toe with an Abrams tank." He chuckled proudly.

"I sent the Strykers out to hunt down these bomber blimps. They're tough as shit, but a straight shot to their payload and they'll go down faster than a lead zeppelin." Both Andrews and Conner chuckled. "They spotted the commies settin' up some kinda base a few clicks south o' here. Reckon they wanna establish a foot-hold here for their invasion."

"Do you have any medics with you?" Captain Andrews asked. "My unit's been through the brunt of the assault force and needs to rest."

"With all respect, sir," Private Gonzalez spoke up. "We're not tired. We want to keep fighting."

"Is this unit ready for duty?" Captain Andrews asked.

"Sir, yes, sir!" they replied with one voice.

"We'd sure appreciate the help," Sergeant Conner added.

"Then climb aboard," Captain Andrews ordered. "We've got a base to take out."

"I'll get on the horn to Defense Department," Conner stated. "That Lieutenant Lee's been after you ever since we lost contact with you." Sergeant Conner disappeared into the bowels of the tank while Captain Andrews' unit climbed aboard the Bulldog tank for departure. As the tank started to move, Sergeant Conner handed the radio CB to the captain.

"It's good to hear you're still with us, captain," the Lieutenant's voice said. "Unfortunately, something terrible has happened. The Soviet's eastern fleet attacked New York as well, at the same time as their DC invasion. They've destroyed the Statue of Liberty!"

* * *

 **(AN: As promised, the Allies [at least the Americans] get their appearance. Lieutenant Lee is obviously Eva [ _RA2_ 's Eva], but, like with Zofia, we'll have to use the surname when addressing them in a formal manner [chain of command, motherfucker! do you speak it?]. Carville, of course, is being portrayed as he was in _RA2_ and _RA1: Retaliation_. As for why he hasn't aged much, we'll just say that he's been in fairly good health [for someone who drinks and smokes] and actually is older than he looks: after all, William Shatner is in his 80s and still seems as energetic and lively as in, say, his fifties or sixties. Also, based on his videos in _Retaliation_ [which i never played, even though we once had a _PS1_ ], of course we had to introduce him arguing on the phone with someone.)**

 **(What do you think so far? Interesting? Anything good? What do you think about the two commanders so far [Andrews and Lazarev]? The irony is that while I wrote Lazarev as "my character" [even having to nerf him heavily before daring to start writing], there is some of me in Captain Andrews. His physical appearance is based on someone who i had considered a friend long ago, but his backstory of coming from a military family is sort of from my own personal experience: the men on both sides of my extended family have served. Also, they are ideologically switched: the American commander, due to his past, is very family and community-oriented [whether it's the entire US people or the company under his command], while the Soviet commander, due to his past, is very individualistic and solitary. Any of you have anything else to add?)**


	3. Bleed Red

**(AN: I hope that every chapter doesn't end up being ten thousand words long. Like, I know that it's probably what you all want, but it's hell to write!)**

 **(Anywho, here we go back to the Soviet's perspective. Also, i was looking up other Soviet-era naval ships and came across the _Slava_ -class cruiser, which is almost identical to the Dreadnought [down to the P-500 cruise missiles]. Also the Polish OT-64 SKOT would probably be a better match for a half-track than a BA-30, in my opinion. Since we're talking about ships, here is something to mess with your heads: in _Mental Omega_ , the Russians get the Akula submarine, in a call-back to the missile sub from _RA1_ , which replaces the Dreadnought for them. Now in real life, the Soviet submarine designated by NATO as "Akula" is the Shchuka, an attack sub, while the one designated by NATO as "Typhoon" is the real Akula, a ballistic-missile sub. Which means that the "Typhoon" sub from _Red Alert 2_ is not an attack sub, since "Typhoon" refers to the Akula missile sub. But the _real_ attack sub [what the "Typhoon" should be] is, in this story, the Shchuka.)  
**

 **(Now that i've confused you all to hell, let's get this going!)**

* * *

 **Bleed Red  
**

 _0750 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982_

On board the _SSV-33_ Ural, Mikhail Lazarev was reading through several papers in the little cabin that had been given him. Though he was General-Major, he wasn't given any stately quarters to match his nominal title: he had to share the same bare, stiff cot that was common to the others under his command. The only thing he had was a little desk and a lamp, which made the little six by ten iron room even more uncomfortably cramped. But he had no time to think of such things, for he also had duties of his own.

On the desk were the plans for the invasion of New York, which Lieutenant Zofia Kulika and he had gone over extensively while in Moscow. It seemed, in Mikhail's mind, that every last detail had been planned and prepared for: this only built his confidence in their victory. So far everything had been smooth-sailing, more or less: from Leningrad they had passed through the Baltic Sea, around Denmark and now passed into the North Sea to join with the fleet and the Kirov airships. Once they passed Scotland and the Faroe Islands, the Atlantic Sea began to trouble them. Aside from sea-sickness (Mikhail, as well as many in the Red Army, had never been to sea in his entire life), there were more than a few storms which forced the fleet to break up or try to withstand the tempests. Even so, they were making good time: the scheduled date had not been changed.

It was almost eight o'clock local time, the hour they were to enter the waters around New York City, the largest city in the state of New York and the site of their invasion point. On the other side of the country, the rest of the fleet and General Vladimir were making their way towards the West Coast: (the Premier never called him by his surname, and many others in high command picked up the habit), to strike at the five o'clock local time, the exact time as the fleet here struck New York.

At last the alarm was sounded. Mikhail stowed the papers in their file, straightened his uniform, then made his way out and down the hall. He had to take his place on-board one of the _Zubr_ hovercraft. The first assault would be by the navy Dreadnoughts, then the Borillos would be sent forward with the first troops on the ground, in addition to several hovercraft dropping off more of the main invasion force.

Onto the main deck of the SSV Ural he climbed, where other personnel were being loaded onto the hovercraft, floating moored to the massive communications ship. A thin, steel ladder led down from the deck of the Ural onto the _Zubr._ He paused for a moment, looking down at the crashing waves and the tossing hovercraft. One gloved hand went over his mouth; he felt he was going to be sick.

" _Davay!_ " he heard someone shout. Mustering his courage, he climbed down the ladder, landed on board the _Zubr_ and made his way into the cargo hold.

The cargo hold wasn't exactly uncomfortable: certainly less uncomfortable than the cattle car had been. There were lights here, and air-conditioning as well. Two large BA-63 Tsivil half-tracks sat in the cargo hold, their heavy wheels tied down with chain, while here and there were several groups of soldiers playing cards or drinking vodka. They all wore thick brown coats with long tails extending down to the ankles, heavy boots, a gas mask and helmet, and each of them were armed with a PPSh-41. Mikhail noticed that among some of them were black and white huskies, obediently sitting or lying down on the cool metal floor.

"Hey! _Moy staryy drug!_ " a familiar voice greeted. Mikhail saw Boris stand up from a group of those drinking vodka and approached Mikhail, planting a kiss on his cheek and wrapping one arm around his shoulders. "So, you're on this glorious crusade too, comrade...uh...?"

"I've been promoted," Mikhail replied. They hadn't time to reconnect during the party, especially after interrupting Boris and Zhana's fun, and he hadn't seen him during the parade. "General-Major."

"Comrade General!" exclaimed Boris. "Surprised to see you out here fighting also. Must have angered someone in Kremlin."

"Why do you say that?" Mikhail began, but Boris shushed him.

"It not safe to speak," Boris added. "But let us not talk of such things. The glorious revolution has begun! Soon we will land in New York and the fighting will begin! Come, let us drink to our victory."

" _Nyet_ ," Mikhail dismissed.

"Come now, Comrade General!" insisted Boris. "You, especially, look like you could use a drink, _da_?"

As it seemed resistance was futile, Mikhail agreed and followed Boris to the little circle he was sitting at. There was a ruck-sack seated on the ground, and against it was an AK-47 with a laser sight. Onto the side of the ruck-sack was pinned a picture of Zhana in a flight suit wearing a red beret. Besides the ruck-sack sat a Siberian husky that rose from where she had been sitting and knelt before Boris.

"Come, have a seat here," Boris said to Mikhail, gesturing to the ammunition crate that had been used as a seat: Mikhail took his seat and Boris took his next to him, scratching the dog behind her ears. "This is Dasha, my most faithful companion. Say _zdravstvuyte_ , Dasha." The husky lifted one paw and placed it on Mikhail's knee.

"Ah!" Boris noted. "She takes to you! That is good; she is Russian dog, she don't like nobody!"

For one moment Mikhail put his hand on the dog's head. He hadn't owned a pet back in his previous life.

"What's in the bag?" Mikhail asked, breaking the silence.

"What, are you KGB?" Boris began, then broke into fits of laughter that broke off into a hacking cough at the end. " _Nyet, nyet,_ it is joke, Comrade General. _Nyet_ , in there I have ammunition cartridge and radio. Call in my airstrike of MiGs to take out hard targets, _da_? Remember?"

" _Da_ , I remember," Mikhail replied.

"So, are you ready to kick some ass?" Boris asked.

"I suppose so," Mikhail muttered. He had never been in a real battle, and the fear of the unknown was telling on him. His hands were shaking within his gloves. "On second thought, I _will_ have a drink." Boris handed him a bottle of vodka, which Mikhail drank straight. It burned his throat going down, but he savored the sensation: it helped to calm him down.

Suddenly an alarm was sounded, a red alert light flashed in the cargo hold, and the hovercraft began to move. They were now detached from the _Ural_. Mikhail closed his eyes, praying that whoever was listening might be with him. Boris, meanwhile, was humming an old Soviet hymn as he closed his bottle and put it back into the ammunition case he had been sitting on: it was half-open and he had been sitting on the closed half.

For almost thirty minutes, the alarm blared and the lights flashed. Boris told Mikhail that when they heard a loud horn sound, the loading ramp would be opened and they'd march across onto American soil. But in thirty minutes time they heard no sound of a horn, and the ramp never opened. At the end of thirty minutes, Boris swore in Russian and then opened his ruck-sack, took out the radio, wound it up and tuned in to the frequency used by the Ural's intelligence center.

"Comrade Kulika," Boris said. "What the hell is going on? Are we going to attack America today or _nyet_?"

"There have been...complications, Comrade Boris," Zofia's voice replied on the radio. "The Americans have heavily defended the area around the so-called Liberty Island. The _Topolov_ was sunk as it came into position to fire on the Statue of Liberty. Admiral Izmaylov is re-organizing the fleet to attempt another strike."

" _Chto?_ " Boris exclaimed. "A Dreadnought sunk? Is the American fleet already warned of our arrival?"

" _Nyet,_ Comrade Boris," Zofia replied. "While there are some ships stationed around the nearby Ellis Island, we believe the sinking of the _Topolov_ to be the work of an American Special Forces operative."

"Have they no shame?" exclaimed Boris.

"Apparently not, comrade," Zofia stated. "We have postponed the landing for a few minutes while Admiral Izmaylov prepares a new strategy."

* * *

One hundred feet below the hull of the _Ural_ , the K-421 _Volf_ , a _Shchuka_ attack submarine, was cruising beneath the waves with a school of other submarines. They were to provide support for the Dreadnoughts in case they encountered resistance from the American navy. During the journey from Leningrad to New York, the subs remained just below the waves: once the _Topolov_ went down, they were ordered to go to silent running and await orders from the command ships above.

Andreyevich Glazkov, the captain of the _Volf_ , paced uneasily at the comm-station, where his communications technician was monitoring for news from Admiral Izmaylov's command ship. The minutes ticked away, and with the sub under silent running, they had no way of knowing if the American fleet were right on top of them until depth charges started blowing.

"Sir!" the technician exclaimed. "It's Admiral Izmaylov!"

"Put him on," Captain Glazkov returned.

"Captain," the voice of Admiral Izmaylov spoke on the sub's radio. "We have detected an enemy destroyer at .0325. We believe the American Special Forces operative that destroyed the _Topolov_ returned to this ship. Destroy it, so that they will no longer be a problem."

" _Da_ , Comrade Admiral," Captain Glazkov answered. The Admiral's channel signed off. "Comrade, open ship-wide channel."

"Channels open, comrade," the technician replied.

"This is captain speaking," Glazkov announced. "All hands man your battle-stations. Firing crews report to the torpedo bays. Helm, move us into position to fire at .0325."

The red alert klaxons roared. The crew of the _Volf_ hustled down the narrow, steel corridors on their way to their stations. The massive nuclear reactor that powered the _Shchuka_ , capable of remaining at sea indefinitely, given the supply of rations, moved the one hundred ten meter submarine into firing position. Within a few minutes, it rose up from one hundred feet to just below the surface, the four torpedo tubes now positioned to fire at the American destroyer.

"We're in position now, comrade captain," the technician announced. "All stations standing ready."

"Fire torpedoes!" announced Captain Glazkov.

Outside the double-hull of the _Volf_ , two torpedoes soared out of the tubes on the bow in a swirl of bubbles. Inside, the technician reported that they had been fired and they waited for a confirmation of a hit. Thirty silent, uneasy seconds passed as no message came back from the Nikolai, Admiral Izmaylov's command ship.

" _Uspekh_ , Captain Glazkov!" the voice of Admiral Izmaylov roared on the radio. "The destroyer has been hit and is taking on water. Our Dreadnought's missiles will finish her off. Hold position for further orders."

Above the waters of the New York bay, the rear portion of the American destroyer burst asunder with the strike of the Soviet torpedoes. The hit was caught on the bridge of the Nikolai, a smaller _Slava_ -class battleship. It had similar purpose as the Dreadnought, with long-range assault capability from P-500 Bazalt cruise missiles. These were about the same size as R-11s, but had farther operational range: meaning that they could strike land targets farther away from the relative safety of the seas that a land-based MAZ-542 armed with an R-11 high explosive missile.

At Admiral Izmaylov's command, two _Bazalt_ missiles shrieked off the deck of the Nikolai, soared through the air, then struck the American ship in a fiery blossom. With a loud shout of triumph, the admiral got on the radio and contacted the Ural.

"What are you waiting for, an invitation from Comrade Premier himself?" he chided. "We've blown up the destroyer that SpecOps b*tch was hiding on! Send out your forces!"

* * *

On board the _Zubr_ hovercraft, the alerts blared again. The captain's voice declared that they would be making landfall: this time, she added, it was not a drill.

" _V kontse kontsov!_ " Boris exclaimed. He took another swig of his vodka, then hurried to the side of the inner hull. Half-way there he turned around and pointed at his ruck-sack. General-Major Mikhail, without thinking, tossed Boris the bag and threw him his AK-47.

"Bring Dasha!" Boris added.

Mikhail seized the husky by the collar and dragged her over to the side of the hovercraft. Boris was now hanging onto one of the many hand-holds on the side of the hull to secure the passengers in rough waters: with one hand he slung the ruck-sack and his AK-47 back onto his shoulder. Mikhail, meanwhile, was holding onto the hand-hold next Boris with one hand and Dasha's collar in the other. Quickly he reassessed his uniform, making sure his Tokarev was still in its holster.

"Finally we get to do some killing, comrade!" Boris exclaimed. "Sure beats sitting in tin can hovercraft, waiting to be blown up by Allied dogs!"

"Can't you swim, comrade?" Mikhail asked. He had been thrown into the Laborec once by his tormentors and had learned rather quickly how to swim.

" _Nyet,_ Comrade General!" Boris protested. "I have no need of bath. I am Hero of Soviet Union whether I smell like vodka or not. Besides, Comrade Zhana don't mind: she likes my _zapakh_."

While they were talking, the radio on Mikhail's belt began to crackle and the voice of Lieutenant Kulika was heard calling for him. With a groan, he let go of Dasha and held the device up to his ear.

"Comrade General," Lieutenant Kulika spoke. "Admiral Izmaylov's ships are moving into position to attack the Statue of Liberty. Your task will be a joint assault on Manhattan Island: one half of your forces will land in the Brooklyn district, while your force will land on Staten Island. There are three crossings for this endeavor that must be secured by our forces: the Brooklyn assault will secure the famed Brooklyn Bridge, while the company under your command will secure the Bayonne Bridge and the Holland Tunnel."

"Understood," Mikhail responded.

"Once you have engaged the American forces in the area," Lieutenant Kulika continued. "Our _Kirovs_ will move into position to eradicate any remaining resistance. We will be monitoring your progress from our forward base on Governors Island. _Udachi,_ Comrade General."

Mikhail put the radio mouth-piece back on his belt, then let go and brought Dasha back to the side of the sub. The husky permitted herself to be pulled there.

"She doesn't let anyone do that to her, you know, Comrade General?" Boris mentioned. Dasha barked. " _Tikho_. Comrade Commissar's speech is coming up." Boris reached down into his ruck-sack with one hand, he pulled out his _ushanka_ and placed it upon his head.

From over the radio came the speech prepared for the troops under the preparation for the invasion. As his rank as General-Major was nominal, pending his victory in New York, it had been outside of his hand to order a speech. This came from higher up, as always.

"Comrades, soldiers of the glorious Soviet Revolution," the commissar spoke. "Today we take back the world from the capitalist swine that have oppressed you. History will remember every one of your names; your comrades in arms beside you fight with you in this great revolution! Think not of casualties: for every comrade that falls in this glorious crusade, a thousand more stand by to take his place. Your Premier is personally grateful for your volunteering for this revolution: he fights with you and bleeds with you! Give all for the Motherland!"

Mikhail rolled his eyes: doubtless someone saw it, but he was on the front-lines. Such a small gesture might be dismissed if he made it back to Moscow covered in victory; and it wouldn't be of any matter if he died.

The hovercraft surged forward as it leaped over the pier. Everyone not hanging onto the hand-holds on the inner hull were thrown back. Mikhail kept a good hold on Dasha, whose paws skidded on the metal floor with the surge. A loud horn roared and the loading ramp opened down.

" _Zaryad!_ " Boris shouted.

" _Vpered, tovarishchi!_ " Mikhail added. " _Dlya Rossii-matushki! V ataku!_ "

Conscripted men and women of the Red Army, clad in heavy brown jackets and armed with PPSh-41s, charged down the loading ramp. Behind them came the Tsivils, unhinged from their chains, rolling forward to give them support. Urged on by the cries of "Charge!", "Forward, comrades!", "For Mother Russia!" and "To the attack!" from their general and their hero - the real ones fighting with them - they were fearless. Overhead, as they stepped out of the _Zubr_ hovercraft, they could see A-12s, I-76s and massive Kirov airships flooding the skies: parachutes beyond count began to appear beneath them, as more comrades were being dropped in to aid them, along with T-72 _Nosorog_ tanks.

Mikhail and Boris charged out once the last of the footmen left the hovercraft. On either side were armored Borillos, out of which poured more conscripts and the Tesla troopers, all clad in armor with Tesla coils on their right arms. Before them were the tall skyscrapers of the fabled "concrete jungle", taller than the spires of St. Basil's Cathedral in Red Square. In the streets were congested mobs of the citizens of Staten Island, running for their lives from the invaders. The New York Police Department, SWAT teams and scrambled National Guard were forming a blockade down one paved road.

"Comrade General!" Boris shouted. "The Americans cower behind their barricades! Flush them out!"

Mikhail picked up his radio and called to the Borillos. "Charge their line, make us an opening. _Bystro!_ "

The armored Borillo rolled down the street, under a hail of gunfire from the local defense: a futile effort, as the bullets couldn't even penetrate the thick armor of the transports. As it approached the barricade, some of the police fled for cover, while some of the SWAT remained, holding the line along with the National Guard. A stream of ignited napalm burst from the forward cannon of the Borillo, setting the defenders on fire.

"Comrade General," the Borillo driver radioed in. "You have opening in capitalist barricade."

"Well done, comrade," Mikhail returned. He then turned towards the Tesla troopers in his division. " _Zaryad!_ "

The tramping of iron-clad rubber boots was heard as the Tesla troopers made their advance. They marched through the breach the Borillo made in the barricade. Some of the National Guard remained who were not burned in the Borillo's assault, and they fired off rounds at the armored soldiers: most of the bullets did nothing more than cause them to reflexively lurch back or hold their arms over their domed helmets. Most of those behind them saw nothing but a series of bright flashes: the Tesla troopers, with their darkened visors, saw arcs of electricity from their coils shocking the defenders into a short and violent death.

The radio on Mikhail's belt crackled. "Comrade General," Lieutenant Kulika's voice spoke. "We have an urgent message from our Brooklyn division."

"Put them on," Mikhail replied.

"Comrade General?" a man's voice spoke. "This is Captain Moskvin of 1st Tesla division. We have intercepted transmission from the Americans: they have noticed our plans and intend to blow bridges to Manhattan. Be on look-out for American demolition teams."

" _Da, ponimat',_ " Mikhail answered. "Keep me updated on your progress."

Behind the Tesla troopers came the main force of footmen, with General-Major Lazarev and Boris leading the charge. Suddenly there was an explosion and some of the soldiers began to scatter. Others pointed towards one of the tall skyscrapers, where gunfire started raining down upon them.

" _Ukryvat'sya!_ " shouted General-Major Lazarev. The soldiers made their way behind the police cars, SWAT vans and concrete barricade, and began firing back at the entrenched National Guard.

" _Yedyat svintsa!_ " Boris shouted at the building as he unloaded dozens of full-auto rounds from his AK-47.

Behind a police car, Mikhail was providing covering fire for the two conscripts on his either side with his _Tokarev_ : hardly a worthy weapon for such an endeavor. They were pinned down and their Borillo was charging ahead down the street, crushing cars and setting people and buildings on fire. Mikhail reached for his radio, trying to keep his head down from the amount of enemy fire.

"Lieutenant Kulika!" he called. "Where is my armor support?"

"We're setting up our forward command base on Governors Island," Zofia replied. "Once we're set up, we'll send the nearest para-dropped armored division your coordinates. You will have to hold out until then."

"I see," Mikhail responded. He put the radio back onto his belt, then took one look at the garrisoned building through the shattered window of the police car. He saw the bottom floor of the building, around the revolving glass door, was made of glass that was not reinforced with much more than sand-bags around the bottom. Under the cover of the two conscripts on either side, he placed his fingers upon the P-FAAC on his head, and focused on the glass walls.

 _The glass wall, it is under my control,_ he thought. _This will break at my command. Break. Shatter. Crack. Obey!_

The wall burst without any evidence of explosion, only shards of glass going here and there. He looked over at Boris, hiding behind a concrete wall piece with Dasha, sticking an ammunition cartridge into his AK-47, and gestured towards the building.

" _Zagraditel'nyy ogon'!_ " Mikhail shouted. Under the rattling of the PPSh-41s, Mikhail, Boris, Dasha and several other conscripts made the charge across the street and into the broken glass walls. Behind them came a Tesla trooper, unafraid of the hail of bullets from the building's occupants.

"Weapons ready, comrades," Mikhail said, once they were inside. "They'll most likely be waiting for us."

"Find elevator," Boris stated. "We can go to high floors without being heard on stairs."

"Sounds good," Mikhail replied. "You're with me, Boris. The rest of you, spread out and hunt down the American dogs."

" _Da_ ," one of the conscripts nodded.

They made their way through the first floor, but encountered no resistance. As they regrouped, there was suddenly a cry heard and everyone went to investigate. They found Boris standing beside two steel doors.

"Elevator!" he stated, a smile on his face. "Go on up the stairs. I will take care of capitalist dogs myself. Give you distraction as you advance."

"But you said the stairs weren't safe!" Mikhail returned.

" _Nyet,_ " Boris stated. "But if this works, they may be less dangerous than before." He then waved for a conscript to enter the elevator with him. Here he removed his ruck-sack and had the conscript help him shove it upward.

"Take care of Dasha for me while I'm away," Boris said to Mikhail, then turned back to the conscript and shouted; " _Nyet! Podozhdite!_ Do not hurt radio!"

"What are you doing, comrade?" Mikhail asked.

"I saw this once in action movie from United States," Boris replied. " _Udachi,_ Comrade General!"

With that, the elevator doors closed as Boris waved goodbye to General-Major Lazarev. Mikhail rolled his eyes; it was almost exhausting, how ludicrously fearless Boris was when it came to battle. It was assuring, however, to have someone at his side who was not only congenial, but believed in the ultimate success of the war.

Reluctantly, Mikhail led the soldiers towards one of the stair-wells. With the Tesla trooper and several conscripts in the lead, Mikhail brought up the rear, with Dasha tagging along behind him. They hadn't gone up more than six steps up the stair-well when a barrage of gunfire was heard above their heads. They halted, pepeshas, Tesla coils and Tokarevs aimed up at the stairs. At any moment they expected American soldiers to come charging down the stairs on the attack. The gunfire ceased: then there was a brief pause. The gunfire erupted again, followed by shouts and cries of pain; then there was only unbroken silence.

" _Davay,_ comrades!" Boris called down from the upper story. "People are dead now!"

Mikhail and the conscripts made the rest of the way up the stairs. They came to the top level and saw Boris standing in front of the open elevator: enemy soldiers lay dead all around him. As the elevator doors closed behind Boris, Mikhail noticed many bullet-holes in the back wall of the elevator.

" _Yebena mat'!_ " swore Mikhail. "How did you pull this one off?"

"Like in movie," Boris stated. "They heard us from downstairs, so when they heard elevator on way up, they assumed I was in it. In truth, Comrade General, I was hiding on roof: had comrade conscript open roof panels so I could stay up there with radio. Once they noticed no one was there, I came down and gunned down capitalist pigs like vodka bottles on fence!"

" _Otlichno srabotano!_ " Mikhail chuckled. "We'll share a drink on top story of Empire State building after we've taken the city."

"I'll take you up on that offer, Comrade Gener..." Boris began, but was suddenly cut short by gunfire from the streets. The two looked down a nearby window and saw conscripts being gunned down in the streets below them. No sooner had they appeared but Boris pushed Mikhail out of the way: a hail of gunfire shot up at the window out of which they were looking.

"It's the American commando!" Boris shouted. "She wasn't on ship!" Boris rose up, taking his AK-47 in hand and took cover besides the window.

" _Idti!_ " Boris told Mikhail. "Take the others. Boris will cover you!"

Mikhail cocked his Tokarev and shouted "Davay!" to the conscripts, who formed up behind him as he led the way back down the stairs. As they marched out of the broken glass window, a hail of bullet-fire rattled towards them. The conscripts broke ranks for cover, but some of them fell dead. Mikhail kept his head down, aiming his Tokarev ahead of him as he ran for the side of a SWAT van. Boris' AK-fire roared down from above, and before he could catch a good glimpse of the American commando, she ducked for cover behind the concrete barricades.

A stand-off ensued as Mikhail and the commando exchanged shots from behind their cover. The conscripts started closing in on her position at Mikhail's orders, attempting to flank her, but they did not get far. Every so often, a hand wielding a semi-auto pistol would appear and drop a conscript. No more would the commando dare to reveal, as Boris' covering fire kept her well hidden.

" _Ukryvat'sya!_ " shouted the General: take cover. Those who remained did so; behind cars, phone-poles, newspaper dispensers, or even behind their fallen comrades.

"You fucked with the wrong country, asshole!" a woman's voice shouted from behind the concrete barricade: the words were in Russian, but the accent was of one for whom the language was not first nature.

"You speak Russian?" Mikhail asked, then leaned out from behind cover and fired towards where he heard the voice. By the time he had got off a shot, there was no one there to be hit.

"Better than _you_ do!" she retorted. Two shots were heard and one conscript cried out, having been hit.

"Throw down your guns, foolish American!" Mikhail ordered. "Your country is ours!"

"Not while I'm alive, red!" the commando returned. Three shots ricocheted off the bullet-proof steel of the SWAT van.

"We'll have to do something about that," Mikhail grinned. "Won't we, girl?" With this, he leaned out from behind the SWAT van and began firing. One. Two. Three. Click. He was out of bullets. Above his head he could hear Boris swearing loudly: apparently his AK-47 had jammed. The American commando laughed.

"That's all you got?" she retorted. "And here I was thinking you'd be a challenge. You call yourself a commander?" There was a brief moment of silence, broken only by distant gunfire and the rumbling of I-76s flying overhead. Mikhail reached for a new magazine when suddenly the commando stood up, two pistols in each hand.

"Chew on this, commie bastard!" she shouted. Within moments, Mikhail managed to duck back behind the SWAT van. Bullet after bullet struck the side of the SWAT van, near the gasoline tank. Suddenly from above, he could hear, shouting over the gun-fire, the voice of Boris.

"Get out of there, Comrade General!"

Mikhail ran from the SWAT van, and not a moment too soon. The American commando had been shooting so much that the bullet-proof steel plating was starting to give way. A bullet struck the gas tank and the van went up in a burst of flames, with Mikhail just barely escaping the explosion. As he was rising up, still disoriented from the blast, Mikhail got a better look at the American commando.

She was about average height, with dark brown hair that fell down to her shoulders. She wore gray camouflage pants, and a bullet-proof vest for a top: both arms were bare and bore scratches and nicks from stray bullets. Both hands held pistols, which were pointed in his general direction. Just then a Humvee appeared behind her and someone was shouting at her in English, which Mikhail did not speak. Whatever was being said seemed to anger her, for she kept looking back at him with an angry look in her eyes. At last, she holstered her two pistols and climbed onto the back of the Humvee. The last thing Mikhail saw of the American commando, she blew him a kiss, broadly swinging her arm as she did, four fingers clenching into a fist as the middle one bade him and his company farewell.

Once the Humvee was gone, Mikhail finally recovered and called out for the others. Of the one hundred conscripts behind him as they took the street, only fifty one remained. Of those, many of them had wounds that were more than a little inconvenience. As he was hearing the report of casualties, Mikhail heard Dasha barking from the building. Cursing under his breath for forgetting the dog, he ran back inside, up the stairs and found the husky kneeling next to Boris. He had been shot in the shoulder during the altercation with the commando.

"It is just flesh wound," Boris dismissed. "I've had worse. One time on mission for Spetznaz, I killed seventeen Cossacks while hung-over from big party last night and with bullet in ass _and_ in _jajca_. This is _nichego!_ "

But Mikhail was uneasy. Even with his P-FAAC, he felt as though he was on fire. The flame of battle-fury was kindled in him, especially from the adrenaline released after the stand-off with the American commando and almost being blown up. He relished the sting, hungry to be back in the thick of it, surrounded by death and battle.

"Can you stand?" he gasped. He hadn't even noticed he was out of breath.

" _Da,_ " Boris dismissed, pushing himself up. "I'll make it. There's nothing I cannot do!"

" _Khorosho,_ " Mikhail said. "Because we're hunting down that commando and killing her. She'll endanger our mission here."

"Lead the way, Comrade General," Boris returned.

Mikhail, Boris and Dasha made their way out of the building, where they saw the cause for the retreat of the American Humvee. Four T-72 Nosorog tanks, accompanied by six Tesla troopers and a battalion of conscripts, were marching up from the south-west. Boris and those conscripts that survived the commando assault cheered loudly. With this kind of armor, the Americans wouldn't stand a chance.

* * *

 _0835 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982_

Forty-five minutes since arriving in the New York harbor and Staten Island under heavy siege by the Red Army. More troops were being dropped in, some of them behind the lines of defense. But resistance was fierce: tanks were being mobilized along the defensive lines. The light tanks could outmaneuver even the Borillos, and the larger, heavier Abrams tanks, could take on Nosorogs and Borillos on their own.

Mikhail and his company were marching towards Bayonne Bridge by the shortest route. The other roads were congested with civilian vehicles and conscripts trying to breech the American defensive lines. As it began to come into sight, the radio on Mikhail's belt came to attention.

"Comrade General," Lieutenant Kulika spoke. "Be advised. The Americans are stationed along Bayonne Bridge, evacuating civilians from Staten Island. Once the bridge is cleared, they will destroy it to prevent our troops from crossing. We cannot let a mere bridge delay our conquest, Comrade General. I'll divert a group of engineers to be dropped into your area to disarm the explosives."

" _Da_ , Lieutenant, understood," Mikhail replied. "Our advance has been blocked along Jersey Street, Clove Road, Henderson and Forest Avenues. We need reinforcements!"

"Our main force is encountering resistance from Manhattan Island," Lieutenant Kulika replied. "The Americans have established a base there from which we have intercepted several transmissions. We believe this base, designated 'Fort Bradley' by the American radio traffic, is the main center of their defense in the area. Our ground troops are being scrambled to defend our forward command center."

"Do you have anything for us?" Mikhail asked.

"Hold on, sir," Zofia answered. There was silence on the radio for a whole minute before finally Zofia came back online. "Comrade General, I have three Kirovs on stand-by: I'll put you through to them." There was a click, then a man's voice was heard on the other line.

"Kirov reporting," the zeppelin pilot answered.

"This is General Lazarev," Mikhail said. "Our troops are held up at Jersey Street, Clove Road, Henderson and Forest Avenues. We need you to take out the American defensive line."

"Acknowledged," replied the zeppelin pilot. "Relaying orders now, Comrade General." Another minute passed, then the pilot came back on the radio. "Confirmed. We'll be there soon."

The radio suddenly hissed with life again. "Lazarev here."

"General!" Captain Moskvin's voice was heard on the other end. "We have made it across Brooklyn Bridge. Soon we will reach Manhattan and claim this city for Mother Russia. Me and the boys are thinking about renaming this city Novaya Moskva: what do you think?"

"Is that Captain Moskvin?" Boris shouted up from where he stood. His arm had been bandaged, and he seemed to be doing better. "Tell him is good idea."

"Will do, comrade," Mikhail replied. He then spoke into the radio. "Remember our orders: engage the American defenses where they appear. Kill any who resist, but do not kill everyone in your path."

"What, no killing?" Moskvin exclaimed. "That's what the 1st Tesla Division does best!"

Mikhail didn't laugh. He was too high-strung for the merriment that both Boris and Moskvin seemed to be reveling in. The battle-fury was starting to burn out, and he was reminded of the faces of the dead conscripts on New York Avenue, when the American commando had ambushed them.

Suddenly the radio crackled again.

"Comrade General," Zofia's voice was heard. "The Premier requests that you capture the center of capitalist propaganda in New York City, known as the Time Warner Center. He has a message to deliver the American people once the Statue of Liberty has been destroyed."

"Understood," Mikhail repeated.

Riding atop one of the four T-72 Nosorog tanks made traveling the roads of New York City easier. Instead of weaving between endless lanes of congested vehicle traffic, the Nosorogs could crush civilian cars with their treads. The company under Mikhail's direct control led the way down Castleton Avenue, with the four Nosorogs, two Tsivils and one Borillo. From Castleton Avenue they turned south down Port Richmond Avenue, then west onto Walker Street: within a few minutes they would reach the highway that crossed over to New Jersey by way of the Bayonne Bridge. No sooner had they taken the high ground when they heard loud explosions behind them. All eyes turned back east and voices rose up in cheers. Behind them they could see three Kirov airships bombing three of the four streets where the American defensive line had been.

" _Ura!_ " Boris exclaimed. "The Americans are broken!"

Even Mikhail couldn't help but smile. The loud bursts of the high explosive bombs made his heart shake with each boom, but it made him pleased. Four divisions would now join his army, and together, they would pick up the old momentum and march across the country in a massive united force.

Again the radio indicated that someone was contacting him.

"Sir," Zofia's voice said. "I have Admiral Izmaylov on the line for you."

"Put him through," Mikhail replied.

"Comrade General!" Admiral Izmaylov's voice said. "We regret to inform that we are pulling out ship support from the New York bay."

" _Chto_?" exclaimed Mikhail.

"It appears that our assault on Washington is encountering...resistance," Izmaylov diplomatically put it. "I am diverting all ships to that region to assist in the main assault. Not to worry. We are leaving one Dreadnought and one submarine in your command to destroy Statue of Liberty, _da_?"

"One ship?" Mikhail returned. "What about the American commando?"

"I'm sure you will have no problems in accomplishing your objective, comrade," Izmaylov answered, then the comm went offline.

" _Der'mo!_ " swore Mikhail. He then held the speaker button on the radio voice-piece. "Lieutenant, status report on forward command center."

"I am pleased to report that all is going well," Zofia replied. "Our forward command center has been established. We have five MAZ-543s in position on Governors Island: we have begun bombarding the American's Fort Bradley, as well as anti-air batteries we have detected on Liberty Island."

"Can you get any of those Uragans to target the Statue of Liberty?" Mikhail asked. "We've had our Dreadnoughts recalled."

"Confirmed," Zofia replied. "I'll have them moved into position at once. We still need you to assault Fort Bradley and take the American television network building on Manhattan Island."

"We'll be there soon," Mikhail replied. He was thankful that at least something good was happening out of the recent turn of events.

Suddenly another explosion was heard: this time it was nearer than the bombing of the Kirovs. All eyes looked northeast, towards the Bayonne Bridge. The Americans had taken it out to prevent the march of the Soviet war machine.

" _Blyad'!_ " exclaimed Mikhail.

"Sir?" Zofia returned.

"Where are those engineers?" he asked. "The Americans took out Bayonne Bridge."

"Hold on, sir," she replied. "Our planes are encountering resistance from anti-air forces on the ground. Your I-76 should be inbound. Estimated time of arrival: one minute and counting."

A massive Ilyushin-76 passed overhead, and three engineers para-dropped out of the cargo bay. Another minute passed before they reached the ground, and another minute again until they formed up around Mikhail's position. The hard part came afterward, as the engineers went to work on repairing the bridge.

The Soviet war machine was brought to a halt on the southeastern New York front. A full bridge repair would take at least two weeks to complete, but the repair had to be done in shorter time. With Mikhail's permission, the engineers removed the heavy shoulder-guards from the highway and used them to make a make-shift skeleton. On top of this they welded larger sheets of metal over them to make the platform. It wouldn't hold, and with enough pressure it would likely cause serious mishaps, but they needed a temporary fix. As it turned out, the soldiers were able to make it across rather easily. But once the Nosorogs started to move, the supports gave way and started to buckle. Mikhail ordered the tanks and Tsivils to remain on this side while the Borillo he ordered to cross the bay and meet them again in the marshland on the New Jersey side. It was still almost twenty miles from the Bayonne Bridge to the Holland Tunnel, and haste would be their greatest asset.

Once they met up with the Borillo, Mikhail ordered his soldiers into the Borillo: as many as could be fit into the passenger hold. However, even with the passenger hold filled to capacity, the force that could move with speed was no larger than twenty conscripts. Mikhail swore: his choices seemed to be march slowly with a strong force and arrive too late, or to arrive swiftly with a small force and risk being ambushed and defeated.

"Captain!" Mikhail said to the operator of the Borillo. "Can we fit anymore in the vehicle?"

"We're already at our maximum," the captain replied. "We couldn't fit anymore inside if we tried."

"What about on the top?" asked Boris.

"Maybe, Comrade Boris," the captain replied. "But forget about amphibious mode."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Mikhail returned. "We'll be on land from here to Manhattan."

Another ten conscripts climbed on top of the Borillo, with three Tesla troopers, Mikhail, Boris and Dasha filling out the roster. The rest of the division would have to leg it after them. Once this was done, they set off on the road again: heavily congested with traffic cars, and running at almost half-speed due to being over maximum carry limit. Nevertheless, forty-three kilometers was not exactly anything to sneeze at: it would mean arriving at the Holland Tunnel in almost an hour, but it would be better than the alternative.

About half-way to the Holland Tunnel, the Borillo passed Liberty Park on the right-hand. This provided them a picturesque view of the Upper New York Bay. The sky was filled with Kirovs, I-76s and An-22s dropping paratroopers. R-11 missiles soared through the air from Governors Island, striking the base of the Statue of Liberty. Suddenly something dawned upon Mikhail Lazarev.

"Comrade Kulika," he spoke into the radio. "Why is the statue still standing?"

" _Izvineniya_ , Comrade General," Zofia replied. "Premier has ordered that you are to have special honor giving order to destroy the Statue."

"Very well," Mikhail said. "Relay my orders to the Urangans and our lone Dreadnought: fire at will upon the Statue."

"Of course, Comrade General," Zofia answered.

Load roars could be heard from the bay as cruise missiles soared through the sky, striking the copper super-structure. Each missile burst into a fiery ball that shattered the integrity of the Statue. One well-aimed missile struck a portion of the Statue's neck that had already been hit. The head fell to the base, weakened from the burgeoning explosions. Again and again more missiles struck the body, sending pieces falling down upon Liberty Island.

"Well done, Comrade General," Zofia's voice spoke on the radio. "The Premier will be most pleased with your accomplishment."

"It's not over until we capture television station," Mikhail replied.

"That is only one objective," Zofia answered. "Destroying Fort Bradley, the center of American resistance in the area, will be your final objective. But, now that the Statue of Liberty is destroyed, we will send troops over to film the wreckage for the Premier's message."

"Understood," Mikhail said. "Our engineers were unable to repair the Bayonne Bridge enough for our tanks to cross. Request a Zubr to get them across."

"I'll send one over there now, Comrade General," Zofia confirmed. "In the meanwhile, press the assault on Manhattan. The 1st Tesla division has already landed and engaged the capitalist dogs."

" _Ponimat'_ ," Mikhail replied. "We're on our way now."

* * *

 _0945 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982_

At last the Borillo arrived at the western entrance of the Holland Tunnel. Over one mile of tunnel running beneath the Upper New York Bay lay between them and Manhattan, the location of Fort Bradley. At the entrance, the Borillo came to a halt. Mikhail removed the hatch at the top and called down to the crew of the Borillo.

" _Chto eto?_ " he asked, eager to know what it was that caused them to stop.

"We don't have clearance, Comrade General," the pilot replied.

"What do you mean, to enter the tunnel?" Mikhail asked. "Did Intelligence make a mistake? Isn't it supposed to be six meters wide?"

" _Da,_ sir," the pilot replied. "But it is little over two meters in height."

"That's exactly what Intelligence reported," Mikhail returned. He had memorized the maps and layouts of New York from the month of rehearsal he and the Lieutenant had gone through prior to the invasion.

" _Da,_ " the pilot continued. "But we only have clearance for Borillo with no one on top. You'll have to dismount and walk around us."

" _Der'mo,_ " groaned Mikhail. Yet another delay had arisen. "Very well, we'll walk." He called out to the others on the back. " _Speshit'sya!_ " At this, Boris and Dasha climbed down while several of the conscripts aided the armored Tesla troopers in their descent. Mikhail then arranged the company that would be walking: three conscripts and one Tesla trooper in the rear guard, two conscripts on either side of the Borillo, and the other three and two Tesla troopers in the front with himself, Boris and Dasha.

Once all was arranged, he radioed Lieutenant Kulika to receive an update on the situation.

"The 1st Tesla division has engaged the Americans outside of Fort Bradley," Zofia reported. "We have also received the footage of the ruin of the Statue of Liberty. As we speak, the film is being edited into Premier's speech, which we will broadcast once the Time Warner Center has been captured."

"Do we still have air support?" Mikhail asked.

"Of course, sir," Zofia answered. "The three Kirovs on Staten Island are still under your command. Due to their size and speed, it will take some time to redirect them onto Manhattan. Furthermore, we believe the Americans are fielding a new self-propelled anti-aircraft platform in response to our air armada. It would be wise to destroy them when possible."

" _Da_ , Lieutenant," Mikhail replied. "We're entering the Holland Tunnel now. Should be in Manhattan shortly."

"Be advised," Zofia stated. "The Americans will attempt to block the eastern exit of the tunnel. We will also not be able to maintain radio contact once inside."

"Relay these orders to the Kirovs," Mikhail replied. "Have them begin aerial assault on Fort Bradley. Will arrive to capture the television station and mop up any American forces in the area once we've reached the other side of the tunnel. General Lazarev out."

"Good luck, sir," Zofia signed off.

About half-way through, all seemed to be going well. Due to the enclosed tunnel, the roaring of the Borillo's treads obscured all other noise. So far they encountered no resistance: the eastbound tunnel had been emptied of traffic with the advance of the Soviet war machine. Soon they would reach the other side and this little delay of having to walk through the Holland Tunnel would be behind them.

Suddenly there was a loud explosion from behind them, magnified to the boom of thunder inside the tunnel. Then came the rattling of gunfire as the conscripts crowded around the armored sides of the Borillo. From all sides came the gunfire, as Mikhail joined the conscripts, taking cover from the fire. The Borillo came to a halt, with the two Tesla troopers from the front acting as shields for those on the sides. Boris was the last to flee from the front of the Borillo, but while he was on his way to cover, a bullet struck him in the gut, sending him down to the ground. Dasha let out a mournful whine as she approached her master.

" _Nyet!_ " Mikhail shouted. A strange desperation came over him: strange in that he had never felt this way about anyone before. Most people in Michalovce he ignored, and those who didn't ignore him he wished would or that harm would come to them. But now he wanted for harm not to come to Boris. Brazenly he broke cover, standing behind a Tesla trooper for cover and firing forward with his Tokarev from behind the soldier.

"It's nothing!" Boris protested. It was, of course, not true. His first wound had only broken skin and drawn a nominal amount of blood. These wounds were deep and still gushing, despite his filthy hands trying to stop the flow.

"They've got us pinned, sir!" a conscript shouted, firing with his pepesha back down the tunnel, where the explosion had come from.

Trapped. Before them lay the exit of the tunnel, which could be discerned by the light from outside. But there was gunfire from that way, bouncing off the armor of the Tesla troopers and the front of the Borillo. Behind them lay where they had come, and where their comrades would be expecting to arrive to reinforce them. But now it was blocked, and possibly by an American tank: maybe even an Abrams tank, one that could actually go toe-to-toe with a Nosorog and whose 120mm main gun could make short work of the armored Borillo. Nevertheless, stray bullets were getting through and the seven remaining conscripts who hadn't died in the explosion were being picked off one by one.

" _Der'mo!_ " Boris swore as he tried to push himself up into a sitting position. "Where is gun?"

Mikhail saw it on the side of the tunnel. After a call of " _Prikroy menya!_ ", he ran through the open, picked up the AK-47 and gave it back to Boris.

" _Nyet_ , not yet," Boris breathed. "Need to keep pressure on wound. Reach into ruck-sack, find anti-armor rounds. The heavy ones!"

Under fire, with his friend's life and those of his company in the balances, Mikhail frantically searched through the contents of the ruck-sack, until he pulled out a clip of AK ammo that was heavier than the standard ammo clip of the AK-47. Despite being heavier, it fit just as easily as the standard clip. No sooner had he completed this, but Boris placed one bloody hand on the weapon.

"Push forward, Comrade General," Boris said. "Take care of Dasha. Don't let her follow me." He turned to the dog. "You hear that, devushka? Ostavat'sya."

" _Nyet!_ " Mikhail retorted. "We need you! You're a hero of the Soviet people!"

"I'm done for," Boris shook his head. "If you win today, _you_ will be hero of Soviet people." Boris then pushed himself up onto his feet, though he was still bleeding from the bullet wound in his stomach. Though he was unsteady on his feet, he stood defiant against his mortal wound. He straightened his ushanka, then gripped his AK with both hands. Then he ran back down the tunnel, firing his AK-47 and laughing as he went. Cheers rose up from those who remained around the Borillo. Dasha was barking after her master. Mikhail, meanwhile, was momentarily stunned. Go forward with the mission or risk all to save Boris?

" _Vpered, tovarishchi!_ " he shouted, Tokarev aimed at the light at the end of the tunnel.

The last few meters they purchased with blood. The rest of the conscripts around the Borillo were shot down, but Mikhail, Dasha and the last two Tesla troopers remained unharmed. Once they reached the barricade, the Borillo drove the rest of the way, setting alight the American defenders. The acrid stench of burning flesh and the screams filled the tunnel, causing Mikhail to fear once again for the life of his friend. His hand momentarily relaxed its grip on the leash and Dasha took off down the tunnel.

" _Podozhdite!_ " he cried after the dog. But Dasha did not wait.

The Borillo cleared out the remaining defenders while Mikhail ran after the fleeing dog. The tunnel was silent, for the Borillo had left the entrance and its engine could only barely be heard. Even the sound of gunfire had ceased. Out of the sullen silence came the wimpering of the husky; that sound made Mikhail's heart fall to his feet. Putting forth all of his effort, he ran the last leg of the way, passing the bodies of those that had been gunned down in the cross-fire as well as the conscripts and Tesla trooper at the rear-guard, who had died in the exploding tank shot. A few meters onward he could see smoke billowing from an American tank, and several other bodies lying dead around it. But it was the sight between him and the tank that made his heart stop yet again.

Dasha was kneeling down next to a body lying on the ground, in a small pool of crimson blood. Mikhail approached and saw, to his horror, that the body was of Boris. He had been the first friend he made in his life, and now here he lay upon the ground, lifeless in his own blood. Mikhail now stood before the body: he wanted to look away, but he could not. For all that the commissars and the Politburo called this war a "glorious crusade", it seemed faint and distant: Michalovce and the name of Jozef Tankian were more real than the promises of glory and reward. Instead there was the reality of men dying: men who had living families, friends, loved ones back home that would never see them again.

Mikhail turned away and discharged his morning's rations onto the floor of the Holland Tunnel. The stinging bitterness of stomach acids upon his tongue brought his mouth into a fierce, open scowl. The heat of battle-fury was replaced with cold anger: he wanted to make the Americans pay for what they had done to him personally.

But while he was standing here, plotting his revenge, the world hadn't waited for him. Behind him the Borillo had unloaded the rest of the company, who were now wondering what happened to their leader. Closer at hand, Dasha turned to Mikhail, looking up at him inquisitively. In the dog's eyes he saw one that was afraid, wondering what had happened to her master and friend. Then came back into Mikhail's mind the knowledge that his company awaited him, just as Dasha was now awaiting her new friend.

"We're not done here," he told the dog. Putting the Tokarev back into its holster, he walked over to the dog and patted her on the head. Then, as reverently as possible, he removed Boris' ruck-sack and slung it onto his own shoulders, then took up the AK-47 in hand.

The company waited at the exit of the tunnel. In all of them echoed one question: where were the commander and Comrade Boris? The Tesla troopers told those from inside the Borillo that they had gone back down the tunnel but had not returned. Now they waited anxiously, looking back towards the tunnel, now hazy from the smoke of the Borillo's attack at the entrance, to see if they were arriving. At length two figures appeared, and cheers were heard. The cheers died down as they saw that only one of those figures was human: the other was Boris' dog. The one human figure was their commander, General-Major Mikhail Lazarev, wielding Boris' AK-47. Whispers echoed among the troops as they wondered what might have happened to Comrade Boris.

"Sir?" one dared to ask. "Where is Comrade Boris?"

"He has fallen," Mikhail replied grimly. The soldiers gasped in shock; some hung their heads in sorrow, others turned their eyes to Mikhail. Like Dasha, they were looking for someone to lead them.

"But we will not let his sacrifice be in vain," Mikhail firmly said. "We will take this city for him! Are you with me?"

There was no general cry of agreement, but a grim, solemn nodding. They accepted what had been said and would follow through. Nothing more needed to be said.

* * *

 _1030 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982_

Simultaneously broadcast to every time zone in the United States was the news update from New York City. It wasn't necessarily a news report, though the Cable News Network, headquartered in the Time Warner Center building in New York, had been allowed to remain operational even after Manhattan fell. It was a video message from Premier Alexander Romanov to the United States of America. Among the footage displayed were scenes of Soviet soldiers waving the red flag along Broadway, the American commander of the defense of New York City, one Captain Theodore Lowe, on his knees surrounded by soldiers with machine guns, footage of the skies filled with massive airships with demon-faced painted on their noses.

In addition, the people, from what was left of California to DC, Alaska and Texas, saw the fall of the Statue of Liberty and its crumbled ruin.

"In but a moment's time," Romanov continued, speaking in English for his American audience. "Your once powerful city of New York has fallen before the might of the Red Army! The choice is yours, people of the United States: you can continue to mourn your past, or surrender and join us in the great Soviet revolution. We are the future!"

* * *

 **(AN: I tried to make the New York invasion seem as HUGE as it appears on the box-art and as it feels while listening to "Hell March 2". The one part that i didn't like that i, unfortunately, chose to put in this story was Boris' death. Apparently the _Mental Omega_ team, being SO enamored with _RA1: Counterstrike_ , decided to kill off one of my favorite characters and replace him with generic, emotionless cyborg and his robot dog [i like some of the things they did, but there were SOME things that i didn't like: that was one of them].)**

 **(As you can see, i got to have a character from _RA3_ appear in this story: Nikolai Moskvin. He's one of the coolest characters in _Red Alert 3_ , just because he's so crazy; he's like a less psychotic version of Ramsay Bolton from _Game of Thrones_. In this version, he's not a commander, but a captain of the 1st Tesla division [and the one who writes 'Moscow' on the 'Welcome to New York' sign from the box-art of _RA2_ , at least in my version].)  
**

 **(Also, speaking of cameos, yes, that American commando was none other than Agent Tanya [ _RA2_ version, specifically]. Unfortunately, i couldn't use any lines from _RA2/YR_ for this first showdown, so i ended up using two lines from _RA1_ Tanya. I'm sure this caused some manner of confusion, since some fans believe that Tanya in _RA2_ is the same Tanya Adams from _RA1_. Even if you go by the "official" dating of the two games, which puts _RA1_ in the early 50s and _RA2_ in 1972 instead of 1982 [like in _Mental Omega_ , and this story], that would put her in her forties by _RA2_ , assuming she's in her twenties in _RA1_ [i personally say early 30s, but that's just me]. I know we like Tanya, but she's not Kane! So for the purpose of this story, i'm having that "Agent Tanya" was created after the success of mercenary Tanya Adams from _RA1_ , making her kind of like "James Bond" in that more than one person could be 007 [whether they're Connery, Brosnan or Craig], but not at the same time.)**


	4. An Awkward Situation

**(AN: So much happened in the last chapter! I hope that i'll be able to get everything told in this chapter without running too long and without missing out on any important details.)**

 **(Thank you for the reviews. As far as "misidentified" vehicles, i had that problem with the _Slava_ -class cruiser. The only difference with the two you mentioned is time period. The T-10 was designed between 1948 and 1952, with production beginning in 1953: this puts it during the time period of _Red Alert 1_ , which, to me, would make it the double-barreled heavy tank from _RA1_ [which the Mental meisters gave to China and called the Qilin tank]. The Ka-50, on the other hand, is close enough to the _Red Alert 2_ time period to be a plausible candidate for the Wolfhound. My rationale would be that i just like the Hind better, since it's a flying fortress AND a transport helicopter at once. However, the KA-50 is close enough to having been made during the time period of this story that it might be introduced later on in the story as Soviet Russia's attack helicopter, what with tactical strikes becoming less a thing due to their overwhelming numbers. Also, sorry to disagree with you, but the missile base in California IS "Vandenberg", it's the place in New Jersey that's "Vanderburg".)  
**

 **(In this chapter, we go back to the perspective of Yuri's secret army. There is a cameo from another _Red Alert 3_ character [the only other Soviet character i actually liked aside from Oleg and Moskvin].)**

* * *

 **An Awkward Situation**

 _1730 Eastern European Time. January 1st, 1982_

The forward command center of the European theater, somewhere in western Ukraine. Krukov was standing before a viewing screen, listening to the speech just made by Premier Romanov on the destruction of the Statue of Liberty. Once the transmission ended, the image shifted to one of Premier Romanov in his office in the Grand Kremlin Palace. The General-Lieutenant addressed the Premier with a placating smile on his face.

"Congratulations on your success in the American front, Comrade Premier!" Krukov lauded. "Soon the capitalist dogs will bow at the feet of glorious Mother Russia."

"We have been meeting with success, _da_?" Romanov replied. "Our glorious crusade marches forward in victory!" At this, Bronislav appeared in the view-screen and handed the Premier a brown folder. After examining its contents, he handed it back to his aide and then turned his attention to Krukov.

"And what of yourself, Comrade General?" he asked. "How goes our European front?"

Krukov forced a smile onto his face. "We are pushing forward triumphantly."

"Is that so?" Romanov asked. "I have been hearing reports of resistance on your way through Ukraine. Is this so?"

"Only a few dissidents," Krukov replied with a dismissing wave. "Foolish opportunists who have been using the war to further their own selfish ends. But we have taken care of them. There is no need to worry: we are claiming victory after victory."

"This is very good!" Premier Romanov replied. "Soon the whole world will be liberated from the scourge of capitalism. There will be a hero's welcome for you when you return to Moscow, and possibly an elevation to the Order of Stalin."

"Good," Krukov nodded. "A true and loyal servant of the people should receive the honor and recognition due to his services. Now, Comrade Premier, if you'll excuse me, I have a war to win." With that, the transmission was ended.

"You didn't tell him, sir?" Colonel Cherdenko, who had been watching silently from behind Krukov, spoke up now.

" _Nyet_ ," Krukov replied. "I will not be made to appear out-done by this Czechoslovakian _chuzak_ and that womanizing oaf Vladimir! I will defeat the Allied dogs myself."

"Would it not have been best, sir," Cherdenko continued. "To have requested more troops?"

" _I_ decide what is best, Cherdenko," Krukov interjected. "Never forget that." He then paused, stroking his mustache pensively. "What news from the front-lines?"

"The Greek Army has noticed our march through the Ukraine, sir," Cherdenko reported. "They have para-dropped a large force that has barricaded the Verecke Pass against us. All attempts to breach the pass have failed."

"Have the officers in charge of the assaults shot," Krukov replied. "They are traitors to the people by surrendering the pass so easily to the Allied dogs."

"But the pass, sir," Cherdenko continued. "You told the Premier that there was little resistance. When he finds that our army's advance has been halted, it will look very badly on you. Especially in light of the success of Comrade Lazarev."

"Success?" Krukov sneered. "Bah! It was not success! He caught the Americans by surprise: any green cadet could have had such a 'success.'"

"Then, sir," Cherdenko replied. "Show the world what true success looks like. Defeat this army here. Let not the Premier think that anything is wrong. We will know the truth, but the world will see that you have won no less noble a victory."

Krukov nodded, then said with a sigh. "Get in touch with Belyy Vorobey."

* * *

The video paused. The agent known as Vasily stood before the viewing screen: beside him was Yuri, who had shown him the video.

"That was taken three hours ago by KGB surveillance in Krukov's command center," Yuri clarified. In his hand was the remote, which he pointed at the view-screen. It changed to a static image of a rally in the streets of Kiev. In the midst of the rally was a young woman in an olive green uniform, wearing a cap of the same color with a red star upon it.

"I am sure you have heard of the White Sparrow, proselyte," Yuri said. "Comrade Belova has been an important asset in the return of Ukraine into the USSR. Now General Krukov has...recruited her to lead the assault into the Verecke Pass." At this, Yuri turned about and faced his newly-returned proselyte.

"You have been selected for this assignment due to your success with Operation Peacekeeper," Yuri said. "Now we must prove ourselves before our comrades in Moscow." Yuri paused, straightening himself up. " _Da_ , proselyte, I said 'we.' The Politburo has been critical of the Psychic Corps since its inception. We do not operate under the jurisdiction of the NKVD; but that is how it should be. Now we must defend the fool General Krukov in his assault on the Verecke Pass: ensure that Krukov and Belyy Vorobey, with their forces, make it through the pass alive. Prove to our comrades in Moscow that the Psychic Corps is not without its usefulness. That will be all."

Vasily nodded, then made his way from the room. Behind him slowly walked Yuri, pensively stroking his goatee. After following Vasily for a brief moment, the psychic turned and went to find a communications officer. There was one other piece that he needed to claim.

* * *

 _1040 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982_

On the eastern front of the war in America, General-Major Mikhail Lazarev was being transported from the Time Warner Center to the Soviet forward command base on Governors Island. The initial attack on the American position in New York had caught them widely off guard, but there were still pockets of resistance scattered throughout such a wide city. The General-Major had half a mind to order the Kirov airships to level half of the city in order that the remnant of the American defenders have nowhere to hide.

Into the command center walked the General-Major, looking for his adjutant. He did not have long to wait, for the young Polish woman was waiting for him at her station. As soon as he entered, she saluted him.

" _Pozdravleniya_ , Comrade General," she congratulated. "With Lower Manhattan in our control, total control of New York will soon be ours."

Mikhail smiled grimly. He was still unhappy with what had happened in the Holland Tunnel.

"In regards to your success," she added. "Premier will undoubtedly give you the rank in truth, not just in name. You will be able to have your choice of any front in our glorious crusade."

"Glorious crusade..." muttered Mikhail.

"Sir," Zofia spoke, taking a step closer to the General. "Is there something you wish to tell me?" Reluctantly, Mikhail relayed the news of Boris' death to the Lieutenant. With this, she too hung her head in sorrow.

"It is a tragic loss," she sighed. But her grief, it seemed, was not as poignant as Mikhail's, at least as he saw it: she cleared her throat and continued on, as formal as ever.

"However," she continued. "His sacrifice has not been in vain. You have won the day. The commander of Fort Bradley is captured and his forces are disorganized."

"The day is far from over," Mikhail added.

"That's true, sir," Zofia nodded. "There are still many things we must do. For instance, the capturing of the JFK International Airport has given our forces a much-needed air-base in the region. That will be useful in the second assault on Washington, as well as securing air superiority in the Atlantic." Suddenly she paused, touching the head-set on her ear.

" _Chto_?"

"Please stand by, Comrade General," she replied. "It's from Moscow." She walked over to her station and opened the channel. On the view-screen appeared the face of Premier Romanov."

"Comrade General!" the Premier greeted. "We are hearing of your success in capturing New York. You have proven yourself worthy of the rank we bestowed upon you. From the west, we hear news of Vladimir's success in California. Soon all the Americans will submit to us! You have done well. We are sending you the insignia of your rank, General-Major: wear it with pride as you lead the people against the capitalist war machine!"

" _Spasibo_ , Comrade Premier," Mikhail nodded.

"I expect to hear a full report on the success in New York," the Premier stated.

But at that moment, Mikhail groaned, rubbing his temples. A strange sensation was coming over him. The lieutenant, keen-eyed as usual, stepped in front of her commanding officer.

" _Pozhaluysta_ , love," the Premier interjected. "You will receive your own promotion in time. For now, I would like some time with my General."

"Your pardon, Comrade Premier," Zofia replied. "Comrade General is weary from the long journey. I believe the Americans call it 'jet-lag'."

"But did he not go by ship to America?" interjected the Premier.

" _Da_ , sir," Zofia continued. "But he is tired nevertheless. I will deliver the report, sir." She pulled a folder that had been arranged by the KGB members that had been monitoring the General's progress. She then turned to him and gave him a knowing wink, then went about her business.

Mikhail had scarcely any time to ponder what this meant as he walked out of the communications center. Again the pounding headache overwhelmed him. But this time he heard a familiar voice inside his head.

 _It is as I told you, comrade,_ Yuri's thoughts whispered. _I have not finished with you. The next stage of the invasion is about to commence, and it is in this part that you will play an important role. General Vladimir is engaged with the remaining American defenders on the West Coast. Though the city of San Francisco is already under occupation, there are still pockets of resistance in the area, especially on Alcatraz Island. Eliminate all resistance on the island and secure it for the Soviet Union. Obey._

With that, the voice faded and Mikhail's head cleared up slightly. He rubbed his head, wondering why the P-FAAC hadn't kept his head clear. Into his mind he heard the same words spoken over and over again: San Francisco, Alcatraz Island. He made his way out of the command center and towards the helipad. A short hop over the New York bay, and he would arrive at JFK Airport, which was under Soviet control. From there, an Ilyushin-76 would fly him over Canada and drop him off somewhere in San Francisco.

As he was leaving, Dasha gave a gentle bark at the General. He turned around and saw the dog wagging her tail, standing eagerly by the entrance of the command center.

"Come along, Dasha," Mikhail said. "We're not done yet."

* * *

 _1930 Eastern European Time. January 1st, 1982_

The title of 'Hero of the Soviet People' was in no way exclusive to Boris. Around the various satellite states of the World Socialist Alliance, names were raised to almost divine status by the Communist Party. In Ukraine, one that had been so deified by the Party was Veronika Belova. She had ran away from home at a young age and joined the Ukrainian Socialist Party, at the time an underground organization due to the country being liberated by the Allies during the Great War. She quickly rose through the ranks as a revolutionary and a fighter, and in time the Party formed a cult of personality around her.

Despite having a wide public image, she was harder to find for most people. But not for the Psychic Corps.

The Zhytomyr Oblast was a long way from the Verecke Pass, but within two hours' flight from Moscow. It was here that Vasily and two other adepts were deployed. They were to meet with the White Sparrow as she she was departing for the Verecke Pass. They would be part of her team that would lead Krukov's forces to victory.

Outside of the town of Zhytomyr was the Ozernoye, the airbase where the helicopter was waiting. Vasily and two other adepts were making their way across the runway to the helicopter pad, trying to act as inconspicuous as possible. They wore brown coats with red arm-bands, some with the hammer and sickle and others with simply a red star outlined in gold: no one would suspect them of being anything other than loyal to the cause. After all, they were all comrades and brothers in arms. Nothing to fear from them.

As the hour of seven came to half-mast, the little group appeared. They were no more than eight soldiers in the group: but, to be fair, they were mostly very tall and very large. Most were armed with pepeshas, while some of the group had large cannons which they carried on their shoulders. At the head of the group was Veronika Belova, the White Sparrow: she was tall and slender, clad in olive green jacket and pants, and wearing a matching cap with the red star upon it. In her hands was an AK-47, and her face was set like steel. Into the Wolfhound they climbed and took their seats in the crew compartment along with the three PsiCorp troopers. It was indeed a tight squeeze, for the helicopter could usually only transport eight. With the cockpit full, the PsiCorp troops were forced to stand and hold on for dear life as the helicopter took off from the Ozernoye.

About half-way to the Verecke Pass, Belova spoke up.

"I wasn't told that we were to receive any support in our mission," she said, speaking to Vasily. "Are you KGB?"

"We're here to aid you in your mission," Vasily responded. "But we are not KGB."

"And what support do you offer us?" Belova asked. "I don't see any weapons on you: not even a pistol. Are you part of Ivanovich's demolition squad?"

" _Nyet_ , comrade," Vasily answered.

"Then you're only going to get in the way," she replied.

"He's KGB," a large, bald man said to Belova: he bore one of the large cannons, which was now sitting upright between his legs.

"We've been sent from Moscow to provide field support," Vasily insisted.

"And yet you're unarmed," Belova continued. "Maybe you should go back to Moscow and come back when you're a little better...equipped?" She smirked.

"Make jokes if you want, comrade," Vasily sneered in retort. "But you will soon see the fullness of our potential."

"Words are meaningless to me," Belova stated. "It was words that Stalin spoke that drove my people to starvation."

"Are you sure that's wise to say?" Vasily asked.

"I thought you weren't KGB," smirked Belova in retort.

"Just because I'm not," Vasily replied. "Does not mean that we're not being watched."

"This is not Moscow, comrade," Belova stated. "This is Ukraine. We have not forgotten what Stalin did to us."

"Like anyone cares about what you _chert_ Ukrainians think," one of the Adepts shouted back.

 _Silence, proselyte,_ Vasily thought. It was the title used by the PsiCorp for all of those who were possessed powerful minds but were beneath 'Master Yuri.' It all stemmed from the markings upon Yuri's forehead.

"Bold words from an unarmed man," Belova commented. "Are you sure you're not KGB?"

"At this point," Vasily said. "KGB are the least of your worries."

"Hmm," she returned. "We'll just see about that, won't we?"

* * *

 _2100 Eastern European Time. January 1st, 1982_

The hour and a half journey from Zhytomyr Oblast to the Verecke Pass was delayed by only a few minutes as the helicopter had to land at an airbase to refuel before continuing on southwestward. Night was already well underway by the time they flew over the Verecke Pass. The moonlight made the snows covering the pass to glisten and shine; and here and there were lights from where the Greek Army had set up their positions.

As they made their approach, the pilot called Belova to the cockpit. Colonel Cherdenko was on the line asking for the 'leader' of the strike force. She crawled her way up to the cockpit and placed the pilot's headphones.

"Comrade Vorobey," he greeted. "As adjutant to General-Lieutenant Krukov, I will be briefing you on your assignment tonight. The Greek Army has deployed six artillery guns along the Verecke Pass. Though their forces are well entrenched, they will not be expecting an attack from the mountains at night."

"Understood, comrade," Belova replied.

"Intelligence reports that the main base of the Greek Army is located on the southwestern end of the pass," Cherdenko continued. "We will need to destroy it once the guns have been taken care of, but be advised: do not engage the base before those guns are destroyed! The guns on the northern side of the pass may begin firing on you if the base is compromised. Also, there are several bridges crossing the pass near the Hungarian border: if the base is compromised, the Greeks may destroy those bridges, trapping you on the southern side of the valley. As we have no engineering teams to spare, this would prove disastrous once our army begins to march."

"Got it," Belova nodded.

Within a few minutes, the helicopter began to make its descent. Outside it was utterly dark, save for distant lights from the west. As soon as they touched down, Belova went to the back of the cargo hold and opened a crate: inside were night-vision goggles that had been provided for the purpose of the night mission.

" _Slukhayte!_ " she called out to her squad. "General Krukov has loaned us these from Spetsnaz. They're not ours to keep, so make sure nothing happens to them. _Rozumity?_ "

Cries of " _Tak_ " and " _Da_ " came from her company. Belova turned to Vasily.

"As you were a last minute addition to my company," she stated. "We don't have any night-vision gear for you."

"That will not be a problem," Vasily replied. "We do not need to see where we are going."

Belova laughed. " _Shcho_? Now I _know_ you're not KGB."

"Why is that?" Vasily returned.

"You're far too stupid to be KGB," she retorted.

"We move as well in darkness as in light," Vasily replied, ignoring her comments.

"Whatever you say," Belova scoffed, rolling her eyes. "But if you get lost, don't expect me to go looking for you."

"Fortunately for you," Vasily commented. "I am not at liberty to return the favor to you, should you be lost. Which you would be without us."

"We will see," Belova returned.

* * *

Outside the helicopter, it was cold and dark. High up in the hills the winds were biting. Even with a heavy jacket over her olive green fatigues, Belova was shaking. The conscripts and the gulag gun-troopers put on their night-vision goggles and followed in the wake of their commander. Once the last of the Adepts disembarked from the helicopter, it took off in a torrent of biting wind that nearly drove them all to the ground. The running lights vanished as the helicopter flew off back towards Krukov's camp.

Behind the main company, Vasily and the other Adepts followed closely but quietly behind Belova's troops. Yuri trained his Adepts to resist great pain during their conditioning, and as such they ignored the cold. As for the darkness, their brains conquered this. The same psychic sense that Vasily used to find his comrades in Lompoc California, the Adepts used to track the progress and location of the Soviet soldiers. They could sense the brain-waves of the soldiers and where they were moving, whether they swerved to miss a tree, leaped over a fence, took cover behind a boulder, forded a frozen puddle, or went to ground. As such, the Adepts could move under cover of darkness without the use their eyes.

As they made their way, the Adepts came to a halt. The number of brain-waves of receptor brains changed from eight to twenty in almost a moment. They could sense Belova ordering her men to crouch down. Vasily sent his thoughts outward and noticed where the sudden surge of brain-waves came from. Four receptor brains were making marching rounds in a wide, squarish perimeter, and in the center of the perimeter were sixteen other receptors standing as if in battle positions.

"What is going on?" one of the conscripts whispered.

"Shh!" hushed Belova. "Not a sound or they'll hear us." She began to scan the area with her night-vision goggles.

"Allow me to spare you the trouble, comrade Vorobey," Vasily whispered. "There are enemies before us: four guarding a perimeter, sixteen within the perimeter inside a building. Most likely garrisoned."

" _Layno!_ " Belova hissed through her teeth. "It will be difficult to assault in the dark. Our cannons could probably get off a few hits, but we'd be shooting blindly. Those scouts will make things harder."

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," suggested Vasily.

Belova chuckled. "And what are _you_ going to do? Talk them into surrender?"

"I can be very persuasive," Vasily retorted. "But no matter what happens, do not shoot or reveal yourself until you hear from me. Is that understood?"

"Whatever you say," Belova returned. " _Dasvidanya_ , honey."

Vasily rolled his eyes, then began to walk forward into the darkness, his hands held up with palms open. At least eight paces away from the hiding place he walked before one of the perimeter guards caught him in their sights: apparently they were also equipped with night-vision goggles.

" _Pavo!_ " the Greek soldier shouted.

 _There is no reason to be alarmed, comrade,_ Vasily thought. _We are all friends here._

Behind Vasily's back, Belova was watching the exchange through her night-vision goggles. Her AK was aimed at the Greek soldier in case anything should happen. What she saw instead was the soldier walking back into the darkness, with Vasily following behind him. They came almost to the edge of the vision range of the goggles, when suddenly one of the figures dropped. The last standing figure vanished. There was dead silence for at least two minutes.

 _Layno,_ thought Belova. _We're probably going to have to rescue him._

Suddenly there were loud cries of agony breaking the still night air. The perimeter guards suddenly started shouting and, in Belova's night-vision goggles, could be seen turning inward towards a dark structure in their center. There was a sudden burst of gunfire and one of the perimeter guards dropped. Shouts were heard from the building as another burst was heard, then successive shots: in the night sky, bright flashes from the barrels of the machine guns showed where the perimeter guard was shooting. Not outward, towards any intruder, but inwards, towards the building he had been trying to protect. There was another chorus of screams heard, then suddenly all was quiet.

"What just happened?" one of the conscripts quivered.

"Shh!" hissed Belova. "Not a sound, remember?"

The sound of a door being kicked open was heard. Belova turned her AK towards the noise, but did not fire. A lone figure suddenly appeared.

"Come inside, Vorobey," Vasily invited. "See what your 'useless' comrades have done for you."

* * *

 _0955 Mountain Time. January 1st, 1982_

William Cartwright, Vice President of the United States. A former member of the American Socialist Party, he had been a very vocal member of the opposition front during the 1950s. With a catastrophic war with Japan less than five years ago, many in the United States were uninterested in wasting lives in another war, especially one that had little to no repercussions for them here at home. This was one of the main reasons why the United States did not officially join the Allied Nations of Europe in their war against Josef Stalin's Soviet Empire. As a front, people like Cartwright, then the senator of Vermont, argued that it was an unjust waste of American lives to send men overseas to fight the Soviet Union.

In truth, Cartwright had never left the American Socialist Party. During the 70s, he had been a proud advocate of the World Socialist Alliance, and frequently praised Alexander Romanov as a prime example of the benefits that socialism could bring to the people of the world.

At 0500 hours Eastern Time the previous day, Cartwright had received a phone call from an informant of his in the Soviet Embassy in Quebec. Within thirty minutes he was on board a private plane headed for Peterson Air Force Base, then by car to the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. An hour later he had closed the blast doors and barricaded himself inside the base. No more than a handful of people were present at the base: the VP, seven Secret Service agents, and a technician. The Vice President had warned them that they were not to share anything with anyone outside of the base without express permission from him first.

For one whole day they waited. The Secret Service agents knew no more than what they were told, and the technician no more than what was monitored from NORAD. The Vice President waited anxiously for news to come in. All that day and into the night there was precious little news. During that day, he made several phone calls to friends of his, informing them of where he was if they needed to contact him.

At 0600 hours local time today, it began. Phone calls came in from the governor of Oregon and California, as well as from Charmain, the mayor of San Francisco. Soviet forces had invaded California. To these, the VP had given only one answer:

"Stand down the national guard. Capitulation is our best option at this point."

Then came the news from the east coast. The Soviets had invaded New York and Washington DC. Cartwright had said nothing in all of this, only speaking to answer phone calls from his associates on the east coast. In each case, the answer was the same: surrender to avoid lives being lost. Then came the news that the Statue of Liberty had been destroyed. A smile appeared on Cartwright's face.

"Get me a secure channel to the Pentagon," he ordered the technician.

That transmission had only lasted a few minutes, and Cartwright hadn't been able to say everything that he wanted to say. Nevertheless, it felt good to give the War Room and this young upstart a piece of his mind. After the transmission ended, he left the command center for a cup of coffee. Several minutes later, the technician found him in the break room, pouring over a notepad.

"Mr. Vice President," the technician spoke. "We have the secure feed ready."

"Good, good," said Cartwright. "I'll just be another ten minutes. I need to look over my notes for this speech."

"Um, sir?" the technician asked. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"I really don't have time for questions, Blake," Cartwright replied.

"It's only," Blake stated. "We've been intercepting NORAD information reports. If the nation is under attack..."

"Then this is the safest place to be," Cartwright said, a smile on his face as he turned to the technician. "A nuclear bomb couldn't break through those blast doors out on the North Gate. Now then, if you don't leave me the fuck alone, I'll have to find myself a certified comm-tech who can do your job without a bunch of stupid questions."

"Sir, shouldn't we be doing something?" Blake asked. "You know, to try and stop this invasion?"

"That is precisely what I am doing right here and now, son," Cartwright replied. "Now if you really care about your country, you'll leave me to my job and let me finish it!" Blake nodded and left the break room, while Cartwright rolled his eyes.

Only idiots are patriots, he thought to himself as he continued writing.

Fifteen minutes later, he had written his speech. He walked out to the presentation room, which had been made to look like the Oval Office in the White House. Blake was behind the camera and the Secret Service agents were at attention on the sides outside of view. Cartwright took the podium, making sure his papers were hidden beneath the lip of the podium, and then began his speech.

"My fellow Americans," he began. "Today, at eight o'clock Easter Time, an attack was made upon the United States by unidentified forces. Now, we don't know for certain, but we believe that this may be the action of some Russian extremists, lone wolf types, operating outside of the jurisdiction and support of the Soviet Union. As your Vice President, let me assure the American public that we are not at war with Russia. Premier Romanov has shown the world time and time again his dedication to peace, and his humanitarianism and goodwill to all nations, whether socialist or capitalist. This attack by the Russian military elite is an unprecedented accident, but we must not be quick to make harsh judgments or to point the finger of blame on anyone. The destruction of the Statue of Liberty is a regrettable loss, but it was caused by the United States military's incompetence and insistence on engaging the Soviet military elite in open combat. Which is why we ask that no such foolish acts of aggression be carried out by the American people. Any attempts at aggressive action, no matter how well intended, we believe will be met with violence from the military elite. Therefore we advise you all, citizens of America, to remain indoors and not to take action against the Russian military elite. Compliance with occupying forces is, for now, the safest option for the people of America. We must proudly declare, by our actions, that America is determined to promote peace."

* * *

 _2125 Eastern European Time. January 1st, 1982_

Belova's company entered the two-story house that the Greek Army had garrisoned but five minutes ago. What they found was shocking and disgusting to at least most of them. Bodies of Greek soldiers lay upon the ground of both levels, around the windows where they had been watching for intruders. But each of them had their heads exploded, with blood, gray matter and shards of skull lying about where they had fallen and splattered upon the walls. None of the bodies inside the house looked as though they had been shot. Walking among the slain, with a disconcerting smile upon his face, was Vasily.

"Don't look so surprised, Vorobey," he said to Belova. "I told you that I had my usefulness."

"What did you do to them?" she asked, eying him with distrust.

"I killed them," Vasily said, as though he were discussing the weather or going down to the local bar.

"Without a gun," she remarked. "And without a scratch on yourself. What about the first soldier?"

"What about him?"

"I was watching you," she said. "He didn't even call out for his comrades once he saw you. How did you get past him?"

"As I said," Vasily returned. "I can be very persuasive."

Veronika Belova said nothing. Her eyes turned back to the bodies as Vasily walked over to the other two he brought with him, those he called 'Adepts.' Though she had no pity for 'capitalists' and 'fascists', as those who were not comrades were called, she appreciated how difficult it was to kill an armed man. She had seventeen notches upon the stock of her AK-47, each for a kill she had made. Getting to each of them had been more or less difficult, and it was pleasing to make the more difficult kills. Killing someone in the heat of battle may have been seen by some, especially those in Moscow, as a 'romantic' and 'unnecessary' sentiment, but, to Belova, it meant something to kill someone who was gunning for you. It meant that you were quicker, faster, more accurate and, if nothing else, luckier than they were.

But this was different. So many armed soldiers had died, almost instantly. Something that could kill with that great frequency was greater than any conventional soldier, certainly greater than she was. It made her worried that three Russian agents with that ability were now marching with them.

While the soldiers searched the house, they came upon a map of the Verecke Pass, which was presented to Belova immediately. From this, they were able to discover the location of the guns, the Greek army's main base, as well as most of the entrenched positions along the two sides of the pass.

" _Uspikh!_ " exclaimed Belova. "One of those guns is nearby." She began giving orders to her troops, that three of them, two conscripts and a cannon-bearing soldier, remain in the building while she took the rest of the squad to scout out the location of the first artillery gun. She was checking her ammunition as the soldiers were preparing to leave when Vasily approached from behind.

"How do you expect to take out the guns?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" she replied.

"We have no demolition team," Vasily stated. "And even if we did, we are near the Greek army's base on this side of the valley. If they hear, or see, the destruction of one of their guns, they will send patrols to investigate."

"Too much for you?" Belova asked. "You cleared this house out rather well on your own: one man against sixteen. What's there to fear for you from the Greek army's patrols?"

"Don't you remember what Comrade Cherdenko said about the Greeks' demolition teams?" Vasily asked. "We may evade the patrols for a while, and if we're lucky, we might claim the element of surprise, as I did in this house, and destroy one patrol. When those patrols fail to report in, they will send more patrols. There are three guns on this side of the valley, and if we begin to destroy them, soon the Greeks will know what we're doing and destroy the bridges here." He pointed on her map toward the bridges that stretched from the southwestern end of the pass to a little plateau near the Hungarian border, then back northeast to the northern side.

"Then what do you propose we do?" Belova sighed in frustration.

"We take their artillery positions by surprise," Vasily continued. "Surely they have gunners to man their machines, _da_? If we capture one of them, we can sabotage the guns quietly."

"I'm not sure if that will work," Belova shook her head. "If the Greek Army is anything like ours, they will check in with their artillery crews every hour. If one does not report in, they will send their patrols to investigate."

"Hmm," Vasily mused. "Then we sabotage each artillery gun after they've checked in. That way we'll have at least an hour before they start looking for us. If we're fast enough, we can get two of the guns on this side of the valley before they check in."

"Alright, we'll try that," Belova nodded.

"But don't leave anyone behind," Vasily added. "We can't let them know what we're doing until it's too late to do anything about it."

Belova had her men drag in the bodies of the perimeter guards, which were then deposited inside the house. It would be too long to clean up all the blood of those whose heads had mysteriously exploded, and they needed to be out of here and in position to disable the first artillery gun within thirty-six minutes. As they worked, Belova eyed Vasily and his two comrades suspiciously. Most of their time had been spent standing around pensively, gazing at the others without saying a word.

She was still suspicious about them. Anyone who could kill sixteen armed men that easily was worthy of suspicion from anyone. How did Vasily do it was her greatest wonder. Second to that was that if they could be trusted: her first instinct, bred from years in the Ukrainian Socialist Party, taught her that no one could be trusted, not even party members. They claimed to not be KGB, but they could be reporting to the Commissar of Internal Affairs just the same. With that kind of power, she feared for her life and the lives of her men: were they expendable?

There was, of course, something else. Very briefly, one of these unarmed commandos, that Vasily had called Adepts, had removed his cap to wipe away the sweat from his forehead. In that moment, she had seen a mark upon his forehead, a mark of three letters. The letters jogged her memory, but she could not recall where she had seen them from before. This made them even more intriguing.

* * *

Thirty-five minutes passed and the little group was now barricaded outside of the first gun emplacement. There were eight Greek soldiers about the gun: three rocket troopers, five light infantry armed with semi-automatic rifles, and the three-man gunner crew. It was more or less evenly matched, as far as Belova could see. Now they played the waiting game, trying to discern when the radio check-ins were complete and they could make their attack.

While she was watching the Greek soldiers through her night-vision binoculars, another figure walked slowly into view. Suddenly there was a burst of gunfire: all the Soviet soldiers ducked low, fearing that they were under attack. Yet no bullets struck them. The three Greek rocket troopers were gunned down almost immediately, and the other soldiers turned their guns on their supposedly treacherous comrade. There was another burst of gunfire, then silence, followed by a series of single shots into the darkness.

 _Attack_

Belova did a double-take as she thought she heard a voice speaking in her head. Only a gentle whisper, but she could have sworn that the voice that spoke was none other than Vasily's voice.

" _V'ataku!_ " Belova shouted in Russian.

Taken by surprise, the Greek soldiers were no match for the Russian ambush. They charged the gun emplacement, only to find Vasily standing in front of one of the artillery crewmen.

" _Stoporit!_ " Vasily ordered. "This one is mine."

"Idiot!" Belova chided. "You might have blown it for all of us."

"Why?" Vasily returned. "I sensed that they had already checked in. I felt best to act quickly, so we would have more time to find the other guns."

"Just remember who's in charge, comrade," she added, eying him warily.

"I would never dream of doing otherwise," Vasily answered with a suspicious smile. He then turned his attention to the gunner. Still suspicious of him, Belova watched as Vasily said no words to the gunner, yet the Greek man swiftly went to work on the artillery gun.

"Who is this man?" she asked. "Some kind of inside contact?"

"He is a loyal soldier of the Greek army," Vasily replied. "He has no ties with anyone in the Soviet Union. In fact, he hates us and would shoot us on sight. Something about his parents dying in Athens during the Great War."

"Then would you mind telling me what the hell is going on here?" Belova asked again. "You said he was yours, but he's certainly taking his time trying to shoot us."

"Yes, of course," Vasily nodded. "He is sabotaging the artillery gun. This way there will be no explosion that the main Greek base will detect. But, once our army marches through here, the Greeks will try to fire the gun, and it will be to their ruin."

" _Shcho_?" she asked. "Why is a Greek nationalist helping our cause?"

"It is as I have said, comrade Vorobey," Vasily replied. "I can be very persuasive." A minute or so passed and the Greek gunner finished his work on the gun. Suddenly he gave out a cry and collapsed into the snow, his hands clawing furiously at his brain as if to rid himself of some great pain inside his skull. After a moment or two of struggle, the man fell limp and moved no more.

"What the hell did you do to him?" Belova asked.

"I persuaded him to die," Vasily replied. "Come now, comrade Vorobey. We have much to do this night."

* * *

 _0104 Eastern European Time. January 2nd, 1982_

At the Soviet command base in the Verecke Pass in Ukraine, Krukov was getting impatient. He was pacing inside the command tent, sipping coffee from a porcelain cup: part of his private collection, which were permitted to Party members, though not to any else. Cherdenko, meanwhile, was busy at the consoles, coordinating with the commanders here in Ukraine and northward, towards Poland.

" _Dostatochno!_ " groaned Krukov. "We've given Vorobey and her team time enough. The Soviet war machine must not halt."

"Sir," Cherdenko interjected. "We have not received confirmation that the Greek artillery guns are disabled. Our soldiers will be marching into a death trap."

"The soldiers of the Red Army should be honored to give their lives for the Revolution," Krukov stated. "Their names will be immortalized once the World Socialist Alliance becomes global in fact as well as in name."

"If your forces fail," Cherdenko continued. "It will look very badly upon you."

"It will look worse," Krukov barked. "If we sit here with our thumbs up our _osly_ , while that _chuzak_ prances through America like some kind of hero!"

"As you wish, sir," Cherdenko resigned. "What are your orders?"

"Tell my tank commanders to begin the assault," Krukov said. "The Verecke Pass belongs to the Soviet Union."

Meanwhile, in the field, progress was going at a mean pace: neither swiftly nor slowly. Within the first hour two guns had been taken care of, and a third followed shortly thereafter. The hardest part came after the second gun was taken out. The gunner, in an act of defiance, had shouted something at one of the PsiCorp Adepts that caused Vasily some concern.

"You'll never reach the guns in time."

As they made their way across the plateau near the Hungarian border, they found that, true to the warning, the eastern bridges had been set to blow. This delayed the sabotage of the fourth gun until midnight as they combed the bridge for explosives and Vasily, through whatever abilities he refused to share with Belova, "convinced" Greek engineers to disarm them.

Further delays were caused once they crossed the bridges to the other side of the pass. Here they encountered a troop barracks of the Greek Army that was heavily fortified and further delayed sabotaging the fourth gun. In the end, instead of directly assaulting the barracks, they skirted through a patch of woods around the northwestern side of the barracks and bypassed it entirely. With darkness as their cover, they reached the fourth gun and completed their sabotaging. Now they were on their way towards the last two guns.

All of them were cold and shivering: despite being used to winter, it wasn't any fun being stuck on the side of a mountain in the dead of night in winter with little protection from the howling winds. However, Vasily and his Adepts stood erect, walking forward as if the cold had no power over them. By now Belova was convinced that there was something different about them, and planned to put an inquiry in with the NKVD.

In the distance, a rumble was heard. All eyes turned southeast as bright flashes were seen in the center of the valley.

" _Duryty!_ " exclaimed Belova. "Your General Krukov has sent his forces out ahead of us. They will be slaughtered!"

"Hurry!" one of the cannon soldiers exclaimed. "If we don't get those guns out, we'll all be in for gulag!" With that, he heaved his cannon, rose to his feet and started running forward.

" _Nyet!_ " Vasily ordered. " _Podozhdite!_ "

Vasily's mind had been busy moving across the twilit hillside. He could sense others about eighty yards away: receptor brains, but well-trained ones. Their concentration was on the ground ahead of them, and they were all of them keen-eyed. Therefore it was that when the cannon-bearing soldier broke ranks and charged forward, Vasily's thoughts could not immediately control him and force him to stop.

There was the sound of tearing flesh from a gunshot, though no report was heard. The soldier dropped his heavy cannon to the ground and fell with him.

" _Der'mo!_ " one of the conscripts shouted. "What happened to Sergey?"

"Greek snipers," Vasily replied. "They're entrenched just west of the sixth gun. They will be able to spot us as we go for the fifth one."

"We're out of time!" Belova snarled. "We can't let the Greek guns destroy our comrades in the valley."

" _Podozhdite,_ " muttered Vasily. "I have an idea." Overhead there roared the engines of an Il-76. "We might still have a chance. Belova?"

" _Da_?"

"Give us cover," he ordered. "Fire towards that hill..." He gestured towards where he had sensed the sniper. "...but stay down and don't advance until I give the word. Have your cannons aim at the fifth gun." A loud boom from a nearby rocky hillock between them and the sniper's nest told where the fifth gun could be found.

"What will you do?" Belova asked.

"Call for back-up," Vasily replied.

Vasily got down to cover and began to turn his mind towards the skies. Because of the immense space between the air and the ground, and the speed at which most planes flew, even the most powerful of transmitter brains could not send brain-wave signals potent enough for control to those altitudes. However, Vasily was unique among those initiated as proselytes of Yuri's Psychic Corps. Most of them had been conditioned for service only: given enough control over their mental faculties to dominate the minds of others, but nothing greater. Vasily had been designated for command, as had the one who now called himself Mikhail Lazarev.

Among the many things which this indicated, it meant that Vasily's mind was more suited for advanced, tactical thinking. In this instance, it proved to be invaluable for the stranded group. Under pressure, Vasily remained calm and collected. While Belova and her men were taking cover from the snipers, he turned his mind skyward, sending out a subtle wave of psychic energy. Nothing potent enough for control, but strong enough that even the radios on-board the Il-76s could pick up his message.

 _Send reinforcements._

* * *

Back in the camp of General Krukov, his aide was pacing the floor of the little command tent. The General had gone to sleep and left him in charge of overseeing the assault. The incentive was on Lieutenant Colonel Cherdenko not to lose the assault to the Greek Army, as the sole blame for the loss would go to him in the General's report to Moscow (of course, sole credit for the success would go to the General). Despite this, there were other reasons to remain vigilant, especially during the midst of the assault. Here in the command tent, working the communications stations, Cherdenko guessed if not outright knew, where members of the KGB. They were watching and listening, as always. They could, if Krukov wanted, call upon their reports to corroborate his accusations of incompetence.

"Comrade Cherdenko," one of the technicians called from his radio station. "One of our planes is making an unauthorized delivery."

"What are the coordinates?" Cherdenko asked.

The technician read off the last known coordinates of the plane: it was still within the vicinity of the pass.

"Raise the plane," Cherdenko demanded. "Order them to cease the drop or they will be shot." The technician made the call, then turned back to Cherdenko.

"We can't raise them, sir," he replied. "There's some kind of interference with their radio."

"Can you pinpoint the source?" Cherdenko asked.

"It seems to be coming from the hills north of the Verecke Pass," the technician stated.

"What could possibly cause this kind of interference?" groaned Cherdenko.

One of the other technicians rose from his post, approached Cherdenko and whispered something into his ear. The colonel's eyes widened in amazement, after which he turned back to the first technician and ordered him to continue trying to raise the plane. With this done, Cherdenko and the second technician left the command tent and entered a nearby radar van. They entered the vehicle and the technician closed the door behind him.

"Alright, it's safe to speak," Cherdenko said. "Now, what is it you wanted to say that couldn't be spoken in the command tent?"

"Comrade Cherdenko," the technician began. "I know what the problem with the plane is. It's the Psychic Corps."

Cherdenko chuckled. "Come now, comrade. This is war, not bad science fiction film."

"I know how it sounds, sir," the technician continued. "The Chairman of KGB said the same thing. But there were...incidents around Moscow. Disappearances, interference with radio signals, that sort of thing. Usually it's just KGB activity and no one talks about it, but then KGB commissars started disappearing and it became our problem."

" _Our_ problem?" Cherdenko asked.

"We have file on all activities believed to be linked to this Psychic Corps." the technician replied. "I can pull some strings in Moscow to get you access to those files on need to know basis."

"You're KGB, aren't you?" Cherdenko asked.

"My loyalty is to the party and the Motherland, Comrade Cherdenko," quoth the technician. "I would assume yours is the same."

" _Da_ , of course," Cherdenko returned. "But the KGB is not known for _glasnost_. Why would they be willing to divulge this information to a simple lieutenant colonel of the Red Army?"

"The Chairman decides what information is shared with whom," the technician cryptically answered. "And right now, he wants the Premier to know about the activity of the Psychic Corps. Do we have an understanding?"

Cherdenko nodded.

* * *

Out in the snow-clad mountains, a loud roar of an Ilyushin jet plane boomed overhead of the beleaguered assault squad, amid the roar of cannon-fire. Veronika Belova, the White Sparrow, ducked behind a rock covered in snow on the safer side of the hill. The enemy were heavily entrenched on the other side, and the Greek snipers were slowly taking their toll. Worse still, the Greek Army still had at least two artillery guns that were now firing down into the Verecke Pass. If the Greeks didn't kill them here and now, they would be taken as prisoners of war and, with anti-Soviet sentiment still high in Greece what with Stalin's destruction of the Parthenon and most of Athens during the Great War, would not last long. Their superiors certainly wouldn't ransom them or try to break them out of prison after this failure. If they managed to survive and return to General Krukov's command center, they would be shot for their failure. Succeeding in their mission meant crossing the line of enemy fire and taking out those guns in short order before the Red Army was decimated. Hope seemed lost.

Belova lay prone in the snow, trying to make herself as small a target as possible. A quick glance over her right shoulder saw that odd man Vasily lying on the ground, his gloved hands clutching his head.

"Get down, idiot!" she shouted. Vasily made no reply.

Holding up her AK, Belova sent a burst of covering fire over the snowy hill and then dove across to where Vasily was lying. She tried to get his attention, but he seemed in a state of shock. He kept muttering to himself a stream of words in Russian; though she knew the language, they made no sense to her. " _Uchitel_ ", " _nedostatochnost_ ", " _slishkom mnogo_ " and a name kept popping up over and over in his frantic ramblings. Frustrated with someone who had, for the most part, seemed to radiate an air of command and control throughout the mission, almost condescendingly so, only to crack under extreme pressure, Belova slapped him across the face.

"Get a hold of yourself!" she shouted. "We have a job to do!"

"It's too late," muttered Vasily. "I couldn't reach them. It's over!"

Suddenly there was a loud clang of steel, then the burst of heavy gunfire from PKTs was heard from the top of the hill. Though the cannons still roared, the sound of gunfire halted for a moment before the conscripts from the assault squad broke cover and fired into the air, crying " _pobeda!_ " at the top of their lungs.

"What's happening?" Vasily asked. "Why have they broken cover?"

But Belova was speechless. She knew where those PKTs were coming from, but she couldn't believe that it had actually happened. Vasily had no radio; how could he have raised the Soviet air-force and requested reinforcements so quickly? Why was he acting as though he hadn't and was cowering on the ground, raving like a madman? There were so many unanswered questions, not least of them the mark upon the foreheads of Vasily and his Adepts (well, what was left of them, that is).

"Comrades!" the driver of the Tsivil cried out from over the hill. "Someone order can of ass-whooping?"

The squad broke cover and approached the Tsivil, whose running lights were on and pointed at their position. As Belova approached the vehicle, she noticed in the light that her glove had been stained with blood. She seemed surprised, as she couldn't remember being shot or even feeling the hit. She removed her glove and saw her hand, uninjured and clean of any blood. Relieved that she hadn't been hit, she turned her attention to the Tsivil driver and filled him in on their predicament. Thankfully the armored transport had engaged the sniper nests without taking significant damage. The path to the last guns would be a walk in the park.

"Double time, now!" she shouted back to her men. "We're not done yet!"

The rest of the squad made their appearance one by one to make the last leg of their assault. As Vasily came into the light, she noticed two trails of smeared blood dripping down from his nose into his large beard. At least that answered the quest of the bloody glove. But why was he bleeding? He didn't look like he had been shot, for his face and nose were otherwise intact: if it had been a head-shot, he wouldn't be walking at all. For the present, she had to place these thoughts aside and lead her company on the last leg of their assault. But all of these strange occurrences couldn't just be coincidence. Each and every one was pointing back to Vasily and his Adepts. But there was no possible rational explanation for these events.

Veronika Belova swore. She'd have quite a bit to tell her NKVD officer in her report on this assault.

* * *

An hour passed and Krukov was once again beaming proudly at the view-screen in his command tent. Romanov was on the line and he was giving his proud report of the triumphant march of the Soviet war-machine.

"Comrade Premier," Krukov said. "The ruthless opportunists have been dealt with. They have been shown that nothing can stop the will of the people in their march to freedom."

"This is good news," Romanov nodded. "Soon the conquest of Greece and Germany will be underway. As our comrades on the American front must make the capitalists pay for their crimes, so too here on the eastern front must we wage war against those who have dishonored Mother Russia. The people of Greece and Germany must be made to feel the terror that their military leaders brought against Moscow before they will be allowed to surrender."

"It is a pity, Comrade Premier," Krukov added with a confident smirk. "That Gunter von Esling is dead. I would have relished the chance to defeat him in battle and bring him back to Moscow as my prisoner."

Just then, a female aide approached the Premier's desk and handed him a folio. Krukov rolled his eyes as he noticed the Premier's following the off-screen departure of the aide: likely staring at her posterior, he thought. Once the door was closed, the Premier opened the folio and examined the documents within.

"It seems there was more than a little resistance in the Verecke Pass, Comrade General," Romanov stated, his tone serious. Krukov's eyes darted to the floor as his mind was abuzz with worry. He wondered if the Premier was about to burst into a fit of rage and order his execution. "Why was this information withheld?"

"Comrade Premier," Krukov turned about as Cherdenko approached the view-screen. "You needn't worry about these rumors. The Verecke Pass has been secured by the Red Army; uh, with the assistance of the Psychic Corps., of course."

"The Psychic Corps. was involved in this?" Romanov asked, more intrigued now than grim. "I will inform Yuri of the effectiveness of his corp. In the meanwhile, Comrade General, do not be keeping any secrets from me again. You are one of our finest generals: it would be a shame if anything happened to you. _Udachi_." The transmission ended.

"Sir," Cherdenko hastily interjected. "I apologize for my interruption. I thought it best to inform the Premier of the Psychic Corps' involvement in the success..."

"And here I thought my only concern was from that _chuzak_ ," Krukov muttered. "Now it seems that even Yuri wants to make me look bad!"

"What do you plan to do, sir?" asked Cherdenko.

"Continue with our previous operations," Krukov stated. "The European theater awaits us. As for Yuri, I want you to find out all you can about him and his Psychic Corps."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

 **(AN: Perhaps I didn't clarify the fact that i can't get the beta of _Mental Omega_ at all! Running it causes my copy of _Red Alert 2/Yuri's Revenge_ to no longer work. I've had this happen twice before, and the only answer that i seem to have gotten is that it's not supported on the Origin version of _RA2_ [which i HAVE to use, since, thanks to Windows 8, most of the games i have don't work at all: this includes _War of the Ring, Robin Hood,_ the _Commandos_ games, all the stand-alone copies of _Command and Conquer_ games AND _The First Decade_ ])**

 **(I didn't know Moran Atias [the one whose _RA3_ character made the cameo here] was so tall! 5'9" is an impressive height [unless you're 6'3" Brienne of Tarth from _Game of Thrones_ ]. I also dropped the name of another _Red Alert 2_ character. Since he has no last name that we know of, i cheated and called him "Ivan Ivanovich", since obviously his first name, or last name, is not "Crazy". I also think it's cool that, as far as i've heard, his name is properly pronounced "ee-vahn": also that said name is derived from the Norse name "Ingvar".)**

 **(I've also researched the eight-eight, what is commonly known as the flak cannon [at least the WW2 German one, that the _RA2_ flak cannon is based off of]: it is quite literally a cannon. So the flak troopers would be a bit more lethal in real life than their in-game counterparts, who shoot black clouds that do almost nothing against ground troops and tanks.)**


End file.
